


The Music in Me

by fructoselollipop



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Believe or Leave - Freeform, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2017-12-21 06:46:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/897121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fructoselollipop/pseuds/fructoselollipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Believe or Leave AU. </p><p>Emma Swan is a young mother with mistakes in her past that cost her custody of her son. All she cares about is getting her life back on track. How is she to know when her friends, Ruby and Belle, drag her out to see a new up-and-coming local band that she'll meet someone that changes everything? </p><p>Originally meant to be a short ficlet for Mad Swan Appreciation Week, this story grew a mind of it's own and demanded it be told.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Emma is decidedly _not_ a groupie, even if the girls she hangs out with are.

Ruby and Belle have been talking about this new local band for weeks, discussing the details of each member’s attractiveness, and blaring the CD at top volumes whenever Emma is around in an attempt to convert her. The music is alright, she has to admit, but nothing spectacular. Nothing that would turn her into a stark, raving lunatic like her friends have apparently become.

So when they beg her to join them at a concert downtown, she almost wishes she had an excuse not to go. As it stands, she has the night off work from the diner, Henry is with Regina this weekend, and Belle has offered to pay for her cover, and that effectively seals her fate.

“Is _that_ what you’re wearing?”

Emma knows Ruby doesn’t _mean_ the judgmental tone in her voice, but she hears it anyway. “Yeah, so?”

Ruby and Belle exchange looks, and Emma scowls at them both. Are they really going to look down on her wardrobe choices when _they’re_ the ones dragging her out tonight in the first place?

“Emma, we’re going to a club,” Belle begins gently.

“Not a hoe down.” Ruby’s eyes are lingering on the plaid farm-girl style shirt Emma had chosen for the evening and Emma’s glare could cut glass.

“Oh, okay, I suppose I should just let you guys pick my outfit then,” she replies scathingly, and though the sarcasm is abundantly clear, her friends choose to ignore it as they break into matching grins.

“Knew you’d see it our way,” Ruby says, both girls pushing past her on the way into her bedroom.

What small satisfaction Emma is afforded from the expressions of sheer horror on her pals’ faces when they realize she doesn’t really _own_ any clubbing clothes is immediately negated by the discovery of her one “little black dress” she bought years ago for the last date she’d had in just as long.

“Good enough,” Belle announces happily, pressing the hanger into Emma’s chest and guiding her into the bathroom to change. “Now hurry, we need to get there early or it’ll be a mob scene and we’ll never get close enough to the stage.”

 _This is a bad idea,_ Emma tells herself as the door swings shut behind her.

* * *

Despite Ruby and Belle’s assurances to the contrary, the bar is already full when they arrive, and there is a healthy crowd of people gathering near the empty stage. On the drum set the name “Believe or Leave” is emblazoned in bold lettering and Emma finds herself thinking wryly, _Believe what?_

The girls push themselves over to the bar, Ruby’s most flirtatious smile already on her lips, and a few minutes later they have cocktails in their hands.

“Loosen up!” Belle tells Emma, bumping their hips together playfully. “You’re allowed to have some fun once in a while, you know.”

“This isn’t really my scene,” Emma reminds her doubtfully. She glances over at the stage. “What kind of music do these guys play, anyway?”

Belle looks at Ruby for help, who only shrugs. “Um, sort of alternative, I guess?”

 _Gee, isn’t that specific,_ Emma thinks with a roll of her eyes, but in lieu of saying something along the same line, she asks, “When do they come on?”

“Eleven.”

Which gives them an hour and a half of waiting around time. _Lovely._ For their part, Ruby and Belle seem to be enjoying themselves. Ruby has already caught the eye of a handful of men on the other side of the bar and it is thanks to them for their next round of drinks. Emma resists her friends’ urging to go join the guys, and so they leave her on her bar stool alone. She doesn’t mind; she wasn’t lying when she said this isn’t her scene. Concerts, bars, picking up guys, “walks of victory,” as Ruby likes to call them. It’s all a bit different when you have a kid to think about.

She’s been sitting on her own for about twenty minutes, carefully watching the gaggle of men now attending to her friends (hey, _someone_ has to be careful), when she feels her phone buzzing in her purse. She fishes it out and groans when she sees who it is. Regina never calls except to complain about whatever Emma did with Henry during her weekend. She’s half tempted not to answer, but there’s always the possibility that it could be important.

Sparing one final glance at Ruby and Belle, she hops off her stool and wends her way through the crowd toward the exit. When she comes out on the side of the building she realizes she must have gotten turned around inside the bar and left through the wrong door, but that’s the only thought she can spare before she presses her thumb against the talk button on her phone to receive Regina’s call.

“Did you give Henry peanuts,” the woman on the other end says by way of greeting, her tone clipped and impatient.

“He’s allergic,” Emma replies with a frown.

“Yes, being his mother, I am perfectly aware of his allergies, thank you. Which is why, when he broke out in hives, I called _you_ to find out if _you_ forgot what they were.”

Emma grinds her teeth to keep her temper in check, irritably wondering why every conversation with Regina turns into a pissing contest over who is the real parent in this arrangement. “Regina,” Emma says in a decent imitation of patience, “I haven’t seen Henry since Sunday night when you picked him up from my apartment. If he’s having an allergic reaction it must be to something _you_ gave him.” Or something he ate at preschool more likely, but Emma’s feeling angry enough to let the jibe stand on its own.

The shocked silence is almost palpable until finally Regina replies with the same kind of forced calm, “Are you implying, Miss Swan, that I would have knowingly tried to _poison_ my son?”

Emma rolls her eyes, both at the dramatics and the second use of ‘ _my_ son.’ No matter how many times Regina says it, Henry isn’t any less Emma’s child, too. “ _No_ ,” she says emphatically, “but _I_ sure as hell couldn’t have if I haven’t seen him in almost a week, could I?”

Regina huffs, then says, “Fine. Good night, Miss Swan,” and terminates the call before Emma can even ask for an update when Henry is feeling better.

Annoyed and not at all in the mood to return to the crowded bar just yet, Emma throws her phone back in her purse and leans against the cool brick wall for a moment. Her eyes slip closed and she takes a few deep breaths to recollect her composure. It makes sense that Regina would choose to do this on the _one night_ Emma has decided to live a little. On the weekends she doesn’t have Henry, she usually picks up extra shifts at the diner or orders take out if she’s in the mood to splurge. Nights out on the town like this are things she _can’t afford_ , not if she wants to get full custody of Henry back.

She doesn’t regret her choice to have Henry, not at all. She had considered giving him up for adoption when he was born, but the way he looked at her the first time he heard her voice on the outside, like he _recognized_ her, like he _knew_ she was his mom, she realized she just couldn’t give him away. She was determined to make it work. And though she’s made a lot of mistakes since then -- which is why he’s been living in foster care since he was eighteen months -- she’s not giving up on him. No matter how many snide remarks Regina makes about being his _real_ mom, no matter how many times she not-so-subtly hints that she’d like to adopt him permanently, Emma will _not_ give up on him.

“Kid trouble?” Asks a voice suddenly from somewhere to her left.

Emma tries not to jump too badly as her eyes spring open and she turns toward the source.

The speaker is a man a few years older than she, and, she notes with a hint of amusement, dressed rather strangely, considering the warm night. He’s wearing a _cravat_ for Christ’s sake. But, he’s smiling indulgently at her and offering a cigarette, which she politely declines.

“Good call,” he says, lighting it instead for himself. “I keep telling myself I’m going to quit, but, as it turns out, I have an addictive personality.” He pauses to take a drag, tilting his face toward the sky to blow out the smoke. “At least, that’s what my therapist says.”

 _Oversharing much?_ Emma thinks, but doesn’t say anything out loud.

The man gestures to her. “Babysitter or ex?”

And, at that, she flushes slightly, wondering just how much he overheard. “Neither,” she replies, her tone flat, thinking back to the conversation without relish. “It’s… complicated.”

Her companion tuts sympathetically. “I understand.” Which is odd, because she hadn’t explained anything, but he continues on, “I’m still fighting with my ex-wife over custody of my daughter, and we’ve been divorced for two years.” He stops again to smoke, then nods at her. “How old’s yours?”

“He’s five,” Emma replies automatically and the man’s easy expression grows into a wide smile.

“You’re kidding? So’s mine. Her name is Grace. Here – I have photos.” He hangs his cigarette between his lips and starts digging through the back pocket of his black jeans for his wallet. Emma wasn’t really expecting the full biography, but, she has to admit, his enthusiasm is sort of endearing. She knows that feeling, at least. Henry is the only thing in her life she’s ever felt proud of.

The pictures he shoves into her hands are of a little blonde angel in curly pigtails and, in most of them, clutching a stuffed white rabbit.

“She’s beautiful,” Emma says truthfully, handing the photos back, and the man beams with joy.

“My name’s Jefferson,” he introduces, tucking his wallet back into his jeans with his left hand and holding out his right for her to shake.

“Emma,” she responds, feeling a smile crawl across her face in spite of herself.

Jefferson holds her hand just a beat longer than what would be considered normal before dropping it and returning to his cigarette. “What’s your son’s name?” He asks and Emma notes that he actually sounds genuinely curious.

“Henry,” she replies. “I think I might have a pic on my phone….” She pulls it back out of her purse and clicks through it until she finds what she’s looking for. The photo of Henry at the last Halloween when he’d insisted on being a king, complete with a crown, cape, and even a sword. She shuffles awkwardly closer to Jefferson to show him and is startled when he leans directly into her personal space to look at the picture, instead of just taking the phone from her.

“Cute kid,” he says with a smile, and when he looks back up at her their faces are only a few inches apart. Even in the dim light of the street lamps and the artificial glow of her screen she can see he has these amazing eyes that can’t decide if they’re blue or green. His breath smells like smoke, but she actually doesn’t mind that right now, because she’s too distracted by the way his lips are still curved upward with traces of a smile. She notices uncomfortably that they’ve been holding his position without moving for far too long, but she can’t figure out if she wants to lean forward or backward.

A shout from somewhere beyond Jefferson eliminates the need to choose. “Hey, there you are! We need you inside, we’re about to start sound check.”

Jefferson sighs and straightens himself to his full height once more, leaving Emma reeling. He takes one last drag on his cigarette then flicks it away. “Nice talking to you, Emma,” he says, and he doesn’t even try to hide the way his gaze rakes down her body. She’s suddenly very aware of what she’s wearing. “See you around.” And with that, he turns to follow a tiny woman with curly brown hair and wearing, frankly, the most ridiculous blue dress.

Emma doesn’t linger outside after that. She shuffles back through the front, thankful for the stamp on her hand that indicates she’s already paid. The stool she had been perched on before is now occupied, but she finds her friends still hanging with the men they’d met earlier, Ruby now significantly more tipsy than when she’d left. For a moment she hesitates, still not all that interested in joining them, but Belle notices her hovering nearby and waves her in.

The guys introduce themselves as August, Billy, and Graham, and they’re actually pretty cool. Billy and August are both vying for Ruby’s attention, who fields their flirtations with apparent relish. And, while Graham and Belle had been talking rather extensively (apparently they were neighbors years and years ago), when Emma arrives he clearly only has eyes for her. She’s flattered – he’s reasonably attractive and has an Irish brogue that would make the average girl swoon – but she’s still thinking of the encounter she just had outside.

Its 11:15 before the lights finally go down and even Ruby can’t be bothered to pay much attention to the boys as the crowd surges closer the stage. Emma hangs to the back as much as she can, but she feels Belle’s hand gripping her elbow and pulling her resolutely forward. The band finally appears on stage and Emma is afforded her first look at the men who have been “ruining our lives,” according to Belle and Ruby.

Believe or Leave is three guys – a drummer who is thin and blond, and wearing copious amounts of guyliner and what appears to be a leather coat; the bassist who is way too old to really fit into this setting and is covered head to toe in glittery gold body paint; and the lead guitarist who is identical the man Emma met outside only now wearing guyliner as well and an overlarge top hat.

_Of course._

Jefferson’s eyes pick her out of the crowd almost immediately, as if he was looking for her. He tips her a wink (Belle squeals and pulls on her arm, “Did you see that!”) and says into the mic, “Let’s blow this scene. 3, 2, 1, let’s jam.”

Their set is good, if unremarkable and Emma would have returned to her seat after the first few songs if it weren’t for the way that Jefferson kept searching her out in the crowd and holding her gaze longer than was strictly necessary. Belle and Ruby don’t seem to notice – they’ve started dancing and jumping in time with the music, and at one point Ruby disappears to the bar and doesn’t return.

During a particularly slow and sad song about a man’s lover committing suicide after they broke up (which Belle is completely enraptured with), Emma feels a tap on her shoulder and turns to see Graham behind her offering her a drink.

“Cosmopolitan, right?” He asks almost shyly. “That’s your drink?”

“Thank you,” Emma says, somewhat stunned that he remembered. She turns back to the stage with a smile and receives another shock to see Jefferson’s eyes fixated on her once more. She actually blushes into her Cosmo and feels a little like a teenager on her first date, despite not even being on one with _either_ man.

After an hour of playing, Jefferson thanks the audience for coming out and the band escapes off stage, leaving the crowd to disperse slowly. Emma hooks her arm through Belle’s to make sure they don’t get separated as they make their way back to the bar, where they discover Ruby, August, and Billy doing body shots. It takes some coaxing, but the two closer-to-sober girls eventually manage to drag Ruby outside, though they are still accompanied by the boys.

“Hey, let’s wait around back for the band to leave!” Belle suggests enthusiastically and Ruby heartily agrees. Emma is more reticent; she hasn’t told her pals about her meeting Jefferson outside before their set started (because she knows they’ll lose their damn minds), but it’s looking more and more unavoidable.

“That sounds like my cue to leave,” Graham says with a smile. “Work in the morning and all that.” There is a general sound of dissent from their party, but he waves it away. “No, you guys will hardly miss me, I promise. But, if it’s alright,” he touches Emma gently on the shoulder, “I’d like to ask for your number.”

Emma is so surprised at the request that she automatically blurts it out without thinking, much to the gleeful giggling of Ruby somewhere behind her. Graham simply looks like he’s won the lottery as he inputs her digits into his phone, bids them all a friendly goodnight, and walks alone back to his car.

“Nice one!” Belle whispers as they continue their trek to the back of the club. “See, I knew you’d have good time.”

“Uh-huh,” Emma replies, wondering how she’s going to break it to Graham that, while he is very nice and definitely attractive, she’s really not interested in him _that_ way.

The wait for the band to make their glorious and benevolent appearance is relatively uneventful, aside from Ruby practically shouting that she’s considering peeing in the alley behind the bar. Emma applies her palm to her face at that, feeling embarrassed for her friend, but thankfully both Billy and August are too sloshed in their own right to think any less of her. Then, finally, after about twenty minutes, the back door opens and out comes the curly-haired woman who’d called Jefferson inside before, followed by Jefferson himself and his band mates.

There is a small group of other fans who arrived first, and so they get first dibs on the band’s attention, giving Emma the opportunity to observe Jefferson as he interacts with others offstage. She’s somewhat shocked to see a profound difference between the man before her now and he who she shared photos of her kid with. This Jefferson is lofty, unsmiling, and distant, even as he thanks the girls for their support, and Emma wonders idly which version is the _real_ one.

His band mates, however, could not be more different in comparison. The old bassist, who is now using a _cane_ , is surprisingly suave (and considerably more attractive, now that the gold paint is mostly gone), and the drummer – well, Emma could call him the male version of Ruby. Even from here it’s quite clear he’s wasted, and is all too eager to hug and pose for photos with the female fans. After about five minutes with schmoozing, the guys start shuffling towards their group.

Jefferson recognizes her immediately and a smile creeps onto his face that’s somehow different from the one he used on stage. The one he shared with her when they bonded over mutual affection for their kids. “Emma,” he calls, as he approaches and Emma can instantly feel four sets of eyes swivel onto her. _Awesome._

“You didn’t tell me you were part of the band,” she says, embarrassed and uncomfortably aware of Belle and Ruby quietly screaming in their mouths behind her.

He shrugs, coming right up to her. “If I had would it have changed anything?” He lifts his eyebrows pointedly and Emma feels the corner of her mouth quirk up in half a smile.

“No, I guess not.”

“Good.” He grins widely at her, then gestures to his band mates. “This is Victor –“ he indicates the drummer, then points to the bassist, “and Gold.”

“Gold?” Ruby repeats with that unabashed forwardness of hers that borders on rudeness. “Just Gold? No first name or anything?”

“Oh, I have a first name,” Gold says in a heavy Scottish accent. “It’s ‘Mister.’”

Everyone chuckles weakly at the joke, except Belle who actually giggles so hard she _snorts_. Gold smiles at her, a small, almost _shy_ smile and Belle blushes.

Conversation is easy after that. Jefferson asks how Emma enjoyed the show and seems honestly eager for her approval. She lets him know that she had a good time (not entirely untrue), not having the heart to tell him that his music isn’t necessarily to her taste. Nearby, Belle is laughing at some joke Gold has made (who still looks kind of amazed that someone finds him funny), and Ruby is putting all her best moves to Victor, who is receiving them happily, Billy and August forgotten.

After about ten minutes, Jefferson says to the group, “Hey, we were gonna go to Magnolia for some chow.” He eyes Emma in particular, “You guys should come with us, if you don’t have anywhere else to be.”

Ruby, ever the soul of tact, wrinkles her nose. “Ugh, you don’t wanna go there. If we go to Granny’s I can get you free pancakes.”

Jefferson exchanges a look with his band mates. “Granny’s it is.”

* * *

The door of their cab has been closed for about six seconds when Ruby and Belle round on Emma, demanding answers. Jefferson promised that he, Gold, and Victor will be right behind in a cab of their own, and August and Billy have given up for the night (but not before exchanging numbers with Ruby), leaving the girls alone. Which means, of course, a good old fashioned inquisition.

“What – the – hell!” Ruby screeches, slapping Emma’s arm with each word. “You could have told us you met the front man for _Believe or fucking Leave_!”

“Ow,” Emma whines shaking off Ruby and rubbing her arm indignantly. “I didn’t know he was with the band! Until, well, you know, they came on stage.”

“Flirting with two guys in one night?” Belle says imperiously. “Who are you and what happened to Emma Swan, stick in the mud extraordinaire?”

Emma frowns at the epithet, despite the fact that she’s earned it on more than one occasion. “I wasn’t flirting with _either_ of them.”

“Maybe you weren’t, but _Jefferson_ definitely was,” Ruby says with a smirk and a glance in Belle’s direction, who in turn nods her fervent agreement. “How did you meet him?”

“Regina called –“ Her friends may be a collective pain in the ass sometimes, but she appreciates them all the same when they groan at the sound of Regina’s name, “so I stepped out to take the call and he happened to be out there smoking. That’s it.”

Ruby lifts her eyebrows skeptically and Belle makes that universal hand gesture that means, _go on._ When Emma doesn’t she asks aloud, “And? What did you talk about?”

Emma shrugs. “Our kids.”

Identical twin _“Awwww”_ s fill the cab and Ruby is positively bouncing with glee. “He has a kid? That is _so_ cute. And so _you._ ”

“He has a daughter that’s Henry’s age actually.” Emma frowns, “Hey what do you mean –“

But Belle cuts her off before she ask exactly _what_ is ‘so her.’ “So, are you going to bring Henry over for a play date while you two have a grown up date, or something?”

“He didn’t ask me out!”

“Not yet!” Belle says with a wink, tapping the side of her nose knowingly. “The night is still young!”

Emma doesn’t have a chance to argue against this point because just then their cab is pulling up outside the diner. After a quick squabble, Belle ends up paying the fare, and the ladies stumble inside to the big round booth table at the back.

“Oh, I am so glad Granny isn’t working tonight,” Ruby moans. “She’d kill me if she saw me this drunk again. Ooh, I wonder if we have any of that tequila left.” And, before Emma or Belle can stop her, she pushes up to her feet and makes her way to the counter, letting herself behind it without fear of reproach.

“She should stay at your place tonight,” Belle says to Emma unnecessarily. It’s common knowledge that Granny Lucas has long since run out of sympathy for Ruby’s hangovers, and often uses them to pick fights with her granddaughter. Most weekends there is a standing agreement between the two of them to house Ruby overnight until she’s sober enough to come in to work.

Ruby has flopped back into her seat and is pouring herself a shot when the bell jingles, signaling someone entering the diner, and Emma is mildly surprised to see that Jefferson kept his word and followed them there after all. A niggling voice at the back of her mind tells her that what Belle and Ruby are so certain of is actually true – that Jefferson has taken a liking to her – but she ignores it. She doesn’t _do_ the dating thing. Not many men stick around after they learn she has a kid, and fewer still are willing to put up with how much time she spends working and providing for her son. It was disappointing at first, but she’s had a few years to accept the facts. And Henry is more important to her than any guy who can’t be bothered to even give him (and her) a chance.

“I’ve never been here before,” Victor says as the boys slide into the booth. “Is it good?”

“It’s _very_ good,” Ruby says, and slides a full shot glass over to him.

Victor pounds it back immediately and grins at Ruby. “A diner that serves booze? Now this is my kind of establishment.”

Ashley, the waitress on staff tonight, comes over then, looking positively miserable and Emma doesn’t blame her. It’s criminal that Granny keeps scheduling her for these overnight shifts when she’s nearly 8 months pregnant, but the logic is that it’s not as busy (hence the term “graveyard” shift). It’d be sound reasoning, but this is _Austin_ , a city known for its eccentric and _young_ population, and Emma has never known the diner to be completely empty.

“What’ll it be?” Ashley asks with decent professionalism considering it’s after one in the morning.

“Short stacks okay with everyone?” Ruby asks, looking around the table.

“With a side of bacon,” says Victor.

“And a pot of tea, if you have any,” Jefferson adds.

“Just put it on my tab, Ash, ‘kay?”

Ashley lifts her eyebrows – it’s not like Ruby to be so generous, and for good reason. She doesn’t actually get any food for free anymore; Granny cut her off years ago. Now her meals come directly out of her paycheck. Nevertheless, Ruby shoos Ashley away with their order, apparently unconcerned with how much their meals are going to cost her.

“My Granny owns the place,” she says smugly to the guys and Emma suddenly realizes what’s going on. Ruby is careful not to mention that she actually works here as a waitress – possibly because she doesn’t think it’d impress their guests much. It’s not a fate Emma herself is likely to escape, especially when Ashley reappears at their side with a question on her lips.

“Emma, I mean to ask you earlier. Could you possibly switch your Tuesday night shift out for my morning one? I forgot I have an OB appointment.”

Emma nods and attempts a tired smile. “Sure, Ash, no problem.”

“When are you due,” Jefferson asks before Ashley can walk away once more.

“November 13th,” Ashley replies, ghosting a hand over her swollen belly. “And it can’t come too soon, I tell you.”

Jefferson smiles kindly. “Nearly there.”

Ashley nods and wanders away, probably to put their tea on, and Jefferson turns back to Emma. “You work here?”

“Yep,” Emma replies, trying to sound flippant. “Living the dream.”

Thankfully, Belle comes to her rescue then, sparing her from discussing the finer points of waitressing as a career, and Emma swears not to think badly of her friends ever again. “So!” She says loudly in that delightful Aussie accent of hers. “What’s the story? How did you all meet? How did the band start?”

The guys all exchange looks (or, at least, Jefferson and Gold do; Victor is busy making eyes with the bottom of his shot glass again) and after a moment’s silent conversation between the two, Jefferson takes point on story telling.

“Alright, well, this might come as a shock to you ladies, but we weren’t always in a band together.” He pauses so Victor can feign a gasp, and Emma gets the immediate sense that this is a well-rehearsed act. She wonders just how many times they’ve had to tell the story to get the point where it’s little more than a performance in and of itself. “We used to have day jobs and everything.”

“Some of us still do,” Gold cuts in dryly.

“Right, so Gold here owns an antique shop.”

“It’s a _pawn_ shop, get it right.”

“Yeah, cause that’s _so_ much better.” That was Victor.

“ _Anyway,_ so I go in one day on a whim, and he’s got this beautiful, _gorgeous_ Fender on the wall. I mean, really –“ Jefferson puts his hand over his heart, acting for all he’s worth like finding that guitar was like meeting the love of his life, “ _really_ gorgeous. It should be a _crime_ for an instrument that beautiful to be hanging up in a _pawn shop._ ” He shoots Gold a filthy look who only shrugs in response. “So, I asked him to take it down for me and then he asked if I played, and he tells me that he played bass when he was younger. And, you know, we just decided to start meeting for jam sessions just for fun and he turned out to not be, you know, horrible.”

“Don’t spare my blushes,” Gold says scathingly, pouring himself out a cup of tea once Ashley sets it down on the table. He glances at Belle who is fingering her own tea cup idly and then fills hers as well. They share a warm smile, but the moment is missed by the others as Jefferson has continued the story already.

“Then after a couple weeks, Gold calls me and said that Victor here had come into the shop trying to sell his drum set. Turns out he’d been looking for someone to play with for a while but didn’t have any takers –“

“And we can’t _imagine_ why that’d be.”

Victor flips Gold the bird at that.

“So we offered him a spot. And that’s it really. We played covers for a while in Victor’s garage, but we just started having bigger aspirations than that. We got a few gigs doing covers but we knew we’d never get off Sixth Street if we didn’t start writing our own material. It was really rough at first.”

“Yeah, a lot of Jeff’s songs sucked balls,” Victor says snidely around the lip of his shot glass.

Jefferson just rolls his eyes, “But eventually we cobbled together enough good songs to convince a manager to take us on. And that’s that.”

“Wow,” says Belle, who was truly engrossed in the story. “And you’ve had a lot of success lately, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, a gig every weekend, almost,” Jefferson replies, showing off a wide, toothy grin. “Got another at a slightly bigger venue next Saturday – hey, you guys should come.” Emma knows she shouldn’t, but she feels the question directed towards her in particular.

“We definitely will,” Belle is promising and Ruby nods her fervent agreement.

“Speak for yourself,” Emma says, frowning. “I’ve got Henry on Saturday, remember?”

“That’s way more important than our dumb show,” Jefferson says quickly. “Maybe next time, yeah? I could get you tickets, if you wanted.”

For the second time that night, Emma distinctly feels Belle’s and Ruby’s gazes on her. This time, though, she can feel the waves of smugness roll off them without even looking. Even Emma can’t deny what this sounds like. _Dammit_. She hates it when they’re right. Presently she offers a small smile in return, “Yeah, maybe. But, I think we should actually be getting out of here. It’s late and Ruby and I both work tomorrow.”

There is a shuffle of bodies as Victor has to stand up to let the ladies out of the booth and they all end up standing awkwardly around the table, the men thanking Ruby for the meal and all three girls for coming out to the show. Emma pulls her phone out to check the time – 2:07 – and when she looks up once more, Jefferson is crowding her field of vision and she takes half a step back.

He doesn’t seem to have realized that he’s standing much closer than the bounds of normal human interaction would allow (or he meant to do it all along) and he smiles down at her. “I hope you have a good time with your son,” he says, his voice surprisingly gentle, “but if something happens and you’re free after all, I’ll be looking for you.”

 _Don’t blush, don’t blush, don’t blush,_ Emma chants in her mind. “Uh, thanks. Take care, Jefferson.” He nods in return and she turns on her heel to leave, already dreading the ‘I told you so’s that are sure to come her way in the next five minutes.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that is a Tank reference. Couldn't resist.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning finds Emma regretting every decision she ever made, when her preset alarm goes off at 7:30. She thinks her phone should consider itself lucky it doesn’t get thrown across the room, as she, instead, calmly (okay, maybe not _calmly_ ) punches the dismiss button. She doesn’t even remember falling back asleep, but when she next awakes a few hours later she’s much better equipped to start her day, with only a dull ache behind her eyes to remind her of the previous night’s indiscretions. She’s never been more thankful for an evening shift in her life.

She lays in bed a few extra minutes, half out of pure lazy indulgence, half in indecision over which is more urgent: a shower or coffee. She finally comes to the conclusion that she feels too gross to do anything else and rolls out of bed to go wash up, thankfully remembering to pull on a bathrobe as to avoid flashing Ruby on her way across her tiny apartment to the bathroom. Although, the point turns out to be moot anyway, as Ruby is still firmly passed out on the couch.

It’s not until Emma’s standing under the steady beat of the not-quite-hot-enough water and listening to the pipe knock in the wall (the one landlord promised _months_ ago would get fixed) that her mind has time to wander back to last night. She’s somewhat shocked to realize that she actually had a good time, even with the slight headache it yielded her at present. The bar wasn’t as much of a mob scene as she feared, the music was pretty good, and, best of all, she didn’t spend even a quarter of the money she worried she would have to. All told, she actually managed to have a relaxing night out for a change. While she doesn’t have the time or budget (or inclination, really) to make a habit of it like her friends do, she decides she at least won’t resist as much if Ruby and Belle try to drag her out again.

After ten minutes the water has gone from tolerably warm to completely frigid and Emma is wide awake. She emerges from the bathroom, her long blonde locks swept up in a towel to avoid dripping on the floor, and rolls her eyes slightly. Apparently not even the noise of the shower could wake Ruby, but, if Emma knows her friend (and she’s had ample experience with Ruby’s hangovers to have a pretty good idea), a pot of coffee is all that’s needed to rouse her.

While the coffee maker gurgles and the aroma of fresh brew starts to permeate the apartment, Emma wanders back into her room to get dressed properly and collect her phone. As she’s bent over the bed towel drying her hair she notices a light flashing on her cell and she straightens up to investigate. A quick press of a button reveals she has two new voicemails that she doesn’t remember being there when her alarm went off.

The first is from a number she doesn’t recognize and it’s with a slight sense of trepidation that she puts the phone to her ear. “Emma!” Greets an Irish accented voice warmly. “Sorry to ring so early, I hope you’re not _terribly_ hung over, but a little bit is okay, right?” A pause. “This is Graham from last night, if that wasn’t obvious… yeah. So, anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I had a really good time last night. I was hoping I could see you again sometime, maybe next weekend? It doesn’t have to be a _date_ or anything, we can bring our friends and just hang out, if you prefer. Anyway, if you’re interested just give me a call back at this number. Bye.”

Emma blinks at the screen of her phone as the message ends, bemused. She understood last night that the man had some sort of interest in her, but she hadn’t counted on him calling so soon. And to ask her out no less! Sure, he said it didn’t have to be a date, but the intent was clear, even to her. Before she can stop it, a little voice in the back of her mind reminds her of just how long her past “boyfriends” lasted before she drove them off with her kid, her record, and her dead end career. She doesn’t even give herself time to decide whether or not she’s relieved or disappointed that she can’t accept the offer for this weekend before she clicks the next message.

“Hey girly!” And just like that Emma’s dark thoughts are driven from her mind. Mary Margaret has always had that effect on her. “A little wolfie tells me you actually saw the outside of your apartment last night. I can’t believe I wasn’t there to witness this historic event!” Emma frowns and leans over slightly to peer through the open bedroom door at Ruby (still drooling away) and wondering when her friend had a chance to spill the tea between all the body shots. Meanwhile, Mary Margaret’s message continues without offering explanation, “Seriously though, I hope you gals had fun. Save a spot for me the next time I’m in town, got it? Oh, yeah, and I’m sending you a package. Call me when you get it. Love ya!”

Emma drops her phone back onto the bed and finishes getting dressed, feeling simultaneously happier and sadder than she was just a moment before. She didn’t realize how long it had been since she last heard from Mary Margaret, nor just how much she missed her.

There was a time when Emma didn’t think she’d survive without Mary Margaret, and it’s not that difficult to imagine why. Emma wouldn’t have her job, this apartment, the shitty Honda outside that gets her to and from work every day, or unsupervised visits with Henry if it weren’t for Mary Margaret. So, when she announced one day that she and her singing partner from college would be moving to Tennessee to try and further their music career, Emma thought her life was going to fall spectacularly to pieces around her.

It didn’t, of course. It turned out she was made of tougher stuff than she gave herself credit for, no doubt due to Mary Margaret’s influence. And, better yet, the transfer to Nashville hadn’t been a colossal waste of time. Mary Margaret and David’s sound was always more suited for the country scene anyway, and since they left they’ve enjoyed much more success there than they ever did in Austin. Emma’s happy for them, obviously, but, still, she misses her best friend. Nothing against Ruby and Belle, of course, but they simply _can’t_ understand her the way Mary Margaret does. And, the price of her budding fame has meant fewer trips home to Texas than she promised.

Emma is back in the kitchen and mulling over what Mary Margaret could possibly be sending her when a loud siren cuts through the relative silence in the apartment. It’s only Ruby’s ringtone for her grandmother – obnoxious, but effective in pulling her groggily from sleep. There is a muffled groan, followed by a few dull thuds of Ruby’s hand missing the spot on the floor where her phone is sitting before the siren is abruptly cut off.

“This phone call better be life or death,” Ruby grumbles, her voice rough with sleep.

_“Ruby Ann Lucas, did you come here last night drunk and take a bottle of tequila from behind the counter?”_ Granny’s stern tone is heard clear as a bell, even in the kitchen; Ruby must have answered on speaker.

Ruby’s tousled bed head appears suddenly over the back of the couch and Emma can tell she’s scrambling for some sort of lie or excuse.

_“Well?”_

“Oh, don’t bother, you obviously already know,” Ruby finally snaps. “Yeah, okay, we came by after the concert last night and I decided I wanted a few more drinks, so I borrowed a bottle. Just take it out of my paycheck like everything else and let me go back to sleep.”

_“We agreed you wouldn’t take liquor anymore.”_

“No, we didn’t. You made up a bunch of dumb rules for me to follow. I never agreed to them.”

_“We also agreed you wouldn’t come in drunk anymore,”_ Granny presses on, louder. Emma really wishes she could escape the room without Ruby noticing. She’s heard enough of these fights to last a lifetime. _“I told you, it’s bad for business.”_

“Whatever,” Ruby says dismissively, “there were like two other people there. Besides, I brought some new friends with me, and they said we had the best pancakes they ever tasted. So, if anything, I _brought in_ business.”

Emma doesn’t recall Jefferson, Gold, or Victor saying anything of the sort, but as lies go it seems to work. Granny just sighs and tells Ruby they’ll discuss it more later, then the dial tone sounds.

Ruby tosses her phone back on the floor and combs a hand through her disheveled hair. “Coffee?” She asks, sounding thoroughly miserable.

“On the way,” Emma replies softly. The words are hardly out of her mouth before Ruby is in the bathroom with the door slammed behind her.

All her life, the only thing Emma ever wanted was a _mom_ – or, at least, someone _like_ a parent who would love and look after her. But, rarely, she thinks that what she’s been longing for isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Witnessing Ruby’s knock-down, drag-out fights with her grandmother, and hearing Belle’s horror stories about her controlling father leave Emma wondering if what she missed out on is really worth all the angst. Either way, she always renews her vow that she’ll never let her relationship with Henry get that bad.

Presently, the shower creaks on in the bathroom, giving Emma a few extra minutes to finish making her patented hangover-curing breakfast, which is less some secret masterpiece and actually a few pieces of pre-cooked bacon microwaved and shoved in a sandwich with the recipient’s choice of condiments and one beer. As breakfasts go it’s actually kind of gross, but Ruby has been swearing by it for years, so Emma always makes sure she has the necessary ingredients on hand.

When Ruby emerges from the bathroom she looks a little less worse for wear, but she has a pinched off expression that Emma can tell isn’t just because of a hangover. She throws herself into one of the rickety chairs at the equally battered kitchen table and scrubs a hand down her face, evidently still trying to wake up. “Christ, I need a sandwich,” she groans.

Right on cue, Emma places a double bacon and tomato sandwich (with light mayo) on a plate and a freshly opened beer bottle in front of her.

Ruby snorts her amusement at the prompt delivery of her breakfast. “What are you, my mother?”

Her tone is sarcastic and a bit rough, but Emma only lifts an eyebrow at her in good nature. “A mom that serves you beer for breakfast? You could do worse.”

Instead of responding, Ruby elects to dig into her sandwich with almost alarming fervor (and Emma is reminded just how she earned that ‘wolfie’ nickname). When she pauses to breathe she inspects the label on the beer bottle in front of her. “Wow,” she says thickly, swallowing the bite in her mouth before continuing, “Shiner. You must really feel bad for me today.”

Emma avoids replying to this by taking an extra long drink from her coffee cup. Thankfully, Ruby doesn’t press and lends her full attention to her food. When she finishes eating (a scant two or three minutes later) the dark cloud hanging over her dissipates a bit.

“You’re a saint,” she says with a grin.

“Yeah, you say that now, but unfortunately I gotta kick you out,” Emma replies, picking up Ruby’s empty plate and setting it in the sink. “I got errands before work.” She pauses, waiting for her friend to give her some kind of reaction, but gets nothing. “So, should I drop you off at home?”

“No, just take me to Belle’s,” Ruby says with an air of nonchalance as she gets up to start gathering her things.

Emma sighs and does the same. “You can’t avoid her forever. You’re gonna have to go home eventually.”

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna give it the old college try anyway,” replies Ruby, and Emma gives up. She was never much good at this part, Belle’s bound to have way more success. The subject drops as they put their shoes on and head out the door.

Once in the car, Ruby starts digging through her purse, eventually coming up with a CD. “Here, put this on.”

It’s the _Believe or Leave_ album. Somehow, Emma’s not surprised. She slides the disk into the machine, a fondly exasperated smirk on her face. “You carry it around in your _purse_ now?”

“Yeah,” Ruby replies, unashamed. “I wanted to get it signed last night.”

Emma glances at her friend, incredulous. “You mean we were hanging out with them all night and you forgot to get the CD in your purse signed?”

“I didn’t _forget_!” Insists Ruby. “They were just hanging out and talking to us like we were their _friends_. It seemed weird to try and ask for an autograph.”

Emma concedes that point and they drive for a few minutes with only a song that seems to involve a wolf and a horribly traumatic death to fill the silence.

“I wish they’d done their _Howlin’ For You_ cover,” Ruby says as the last few notes die away. “You’d of loved it, Jefferson does the Black Keys so well.”

As the Black Keys happen to be Emma’s favorite band, she can only reply, “Mm,” in a sort of noncommittal way. She’s not quite sure if she’s endeared that Jefferson likes them too or annoyed that he thinks he can even measure up to the original.

Meanwhile, Ruby is still talking, “His voice is sexy in studio, but you just don’t get the full experience unless you see them live, you know? That man can work a crowd better than anyone I’ve ever seen. He just _connects_ with you, makes you feel like you’re the only woman in the room.”

Emma wouldn’t go _that_ far. Sure, Jefferson proved to be a good showman, but even at the most enjoyable parts of the set she was very much aware of the crowd. Although… she did have to admit that he was making some sort of “connection” with _her,_ at least while he was on stage, judging by the amount of times she caught him looking at her during songs. _Is that normal front man behavior_ , she wonders. Ruby seems to think so. Regardless, how does she explain to her swooning friend that Jefferson was far more attractive to her when he was happily showing off pictures of his daughter than he ever was on stage?

After she drops Ruby off with Belle, Emma goes about her errands: picking up her weekly groceries (including all of Henry’s favorite foods for the following weekend), and going to the laundromat. While she’s waiting for her clothes to dry she listens to Mary Margaret’s message again, which in turn leads her back to Graham’s as well.

She’s on the point of returning his call to let him know that she’s not free when an unfamiliar hesitancy grips her and she wonders if this is something she should treat more delicately. She could swear there is some sort of secret etiquette every girl her age learns when they start dating but she must have missed out on, undoubtedly while she was in jail.

Her finger hovers over the talk button. Belle and Ruby could tell her exactly what the call means _and_ exactly how to respond. But, there’s also a strong chance they would needlessly complicate things.

Unbidden, her past failed relationships come to mind as they had this morning. Michael, who had a secret wife and kids back in Dallas (and was way too old for her, in retrospect); Evan, who filed a secret background check and discovered her record then subsequently dumped her because it might “damage his political career”; and, of course, Neal, who she hadn’t seen nor heard from since he got her pregnant and left her to fend for herself.

Maybe it’s time to admit she could actually use a little help in the dating department.

Emma flips her phone closed and tucks it back into her pocket. She’ll wait to call Graham back until after she hears Belle’s and Ruby’s take on the matter.

* * *

 

Her opportunity to ask comes only a few hours later while she’s at work when Belle bursts in, dragging behind her a sullen looking Ruby who refuses to take off her sunglasses even after she comes inside. They both take seats at the bar, where Emma is stationed, and Ruby immediately drops her head on her arms and pretends to be asleep. Emma shoots a glance at Belle, who only shrugs and rolls her eyes. It seems Operation: Avoid Granny is still in full effect, even if Ruby did concede to coming to the diner.

“Can I have my usual with a coffee please,” Belle asks before adding, “and then come back, ‘cause I wanna talk to you about last night.”

“That sounds ominous,” Emma replies, only half-jokingly, as she heads toward the order window to request Belle’s burger.

“Relax,” Belle teases upon Emma’s return. “I just wanted to know if you had fun, that’s all.”

“You know,” Emma says as she fills her friend’s cup with coffee, “actually I did. I didn’t think I would, but it wasn’t terrible.”

“What a real enthusiastic endorsement, Em, thanks,” mumbles Ruby without lifting her head. She is soundly ignored.

“What did you think of Believe or Leave live?” Belle continues, opening a package of sugar to stir into her coffee.

At that Emma hesitates. She knows what she’s expected to say, considering her friends’ obsession. “They were, you know, alright.”

Belle lifts her eyebrows. “Just  _alright_? So, you wouldn’t want to see them again if you had the chance?”

Emma shrugs, “I don’t know, maybe.” She pauses, sensing a hidden agenda. “Why?”

“Well,” Belle replies slowly, taking a sip of coffee to punctuate the moment, “Jefferson  _did_  invite you personally and everything.”

“No, he didn’t, not  _personally_ ,” Emma says, feeling oddly defensive. “He just wanted us to come see them again so his band would make more money.”

This time it’s Belle’s turn to shrug. “That’s not how it read to me.”

To that Emma can’t think of a response, but, thanks to Ruby, she doesn’t have to.

“Belle just wants you to come with us ‘cause she thinks Jefferson likes you, and he can hook  _her_  up with Gold.”

Belle chokes on her next gulp of coffee and while she’s recovering Emma turns an incredulous gaze on her.

“Oh my god,  _really_? But he’s so –  _old_.”

“Shut up, don’t listen to her,” Belle sputters when she’s finally able, kicking Ruby under the bar. “It’s not like that. He’s really funny and talented!”

_‘Funny’ isn’t the word I’d use_ , Emma thinks privately. Out loud she says, “Hmm, me thinks the lady doth protest too much.”

Ruby finally lifts her head up, snorting with laughter, to give Emma a high five.

“I hate both of you,” Belle says with all the affection of a close, well-loved friend, and she pulls a book from her purse and buries her nose in it, signifying the end of the conversation.

Emma decides to ask her friends about Graham’s message about ten minutes after she brings Belle’s food to her. She’s already reading again, occasionally dipping a fry in ranch and popping it in her mouth between pages, and Ruby could  _really_   _be_ napping for how much she’s moved.

“So, can I ask you guys something?” Emma tries to keep her tone offhand, but she knows she’s failed when Belle actually  _closes_  her book.

“Always,” is her friend’s reply, equally light, but she knows Belle has seen right through her.

“What does it mean when you give a guy your number and he calls you within twelve hours asking to hang out again?”

“What?” Ruby exclaims, her head shooting off her arms, sunglasses knocked askew. “Graham called you already?”

“Yeah, this morning, left a message.” Emma replies. “Why, is that bad?”

Ruby looks at Belle, who shrugs with careful neutrality, probably because the guy is her friend. “Depends,” she says slowly. “What exactly did he say?”

Emma fishes her phone out of the pocket of her apron and drops it on the counter. “Here, listen to it yourselves. I’ll be right back.” She grabs the coffee pot and wanders off to make her rounds.

When she returns Belle and Ruby are still discussing the voice mail and Emma begins to regret involving them. Against her better judgment, she asks, “Well?”

“This is perfect,” Ruby says immediately, grinning, and Emma is taken aback.

“What, really?”

“Yeah!” Belle chimes in with enthusiasm. “You have a legitimate reason not to go this week, which gives you both enough time not to seem desperate by seeing each other so soon. You can call him back and agree to meet him  _next_ weekend with me and Ruby. Then  _I’ll_  back out at the last second and when you get there Ruby can find someone else to hang out with, which will leave you two alone together. And if  _that_ goes well then you can set up your first real date.”

Emma stares at her friends, a little perturbed both by how much thought they apparently put into this plan of action and, admittedly, how much sense it makes even to her. But she’s not interested in treating dating like a game of strategy. Hell, she’s not even that interested in dating  _at all_.

“Wait,” she says, a thought suddenly occurring to her, “weren’t you trying to get me to hook up with Jefferson not half an hour ago?”

“No reason you can’t have both,” Ruby replies with a wicked smile.

Belle, on the other hand, just shrugs. “Well, you keep saying you’re not interested in Jefferson, and you  _did_  give Graham your number.” She smiles affectionately at Emma, who tries not to squirm. “I own a _bookstore_ , I can read writing when it’s on the wall.”

And since Emma can’t even work out for herself whether or not her friend is wrong, she stays silent and the matter drops.

* * *

 

The rest of Emma’s week is, thankfully, unremarkable – at least until Thursday, when Mary Margaret’s package arrives. Emma is on her way out the door to go to work when she literally bumps into the UPS guy in the hallway, and she decides Granny can survive a few extra minutes without her, so she doubles back inside to open her surprise.

When she’s battled her way through packing tape, styrofoam peanuts, and paper wrapping she finally lays eyes on her prize, and the shock forces her to sit on the arm of her couch for a moment. In her hands is a thick brown book with the words “Once Upon a Time” emblazoned across the cover in gold lettering. It’s her prized possession – the stories within it were her only friends at the group home before she met Mary Margaret, and it was Mary Margaret who held onto it for her when she was in jail. But, sometime between Emma getting out and Mary Margaret’s move to Nashville the book got lost in all their mixed up stuff. It’s been years now since she last saw it and now that she’s holding it again she can feel the ten year old girl inside her, the one who knew all the stories by heart and yet still perused its pages for comfort on an almost daily basis, welling up with emotion

She traces a finger over the embossed title and has to stubbornly tell herself not to cry. When Henry was just a baby she read him some of the stories, though obviously he was much too small then to really appreciate them. She’d looked forward to the making the book a beloved part of his childhood, just like it had been part of her own; a hope that was lost when she was arrested. Reuniting with it now feels like being handed a second chance.

Suddenly Emma remembers Mary Margaret’s desire to be told when the package arrived, and she pulls out her phone to comply.

The number rings four times before a breathless Mary Margaret answers, “You got it?”

“I got it.” Emma is all too aware that she sounds just as dazed as she feels. “Where on Earth did you find it?”

“It somehow got mixed in with my old college textbooks, which is weird ‘cause I’m _positive_  we both checked that box.”

“Yeah,” Emma replies slowly. “Well, I’m just happy you found it. I was starting to think it had wound up on some Half Price Books shelf by accident or something.”

“ _Starting_?” Mary Margaret’s voice is affectionately teasing. “You’ve already checked, haven’t you?”

_Guilty_ , Emma thinks wryly, but aloud she says, “Uh, well, anyway, I gotta go to work….”

Mary Margaret’s laugh persists throughout their goodbyes and the memory of it buoys Emma’s spirits all the way to Granny’s. Her good mood lasts most of the day, strengthened by the thought of finally being able to read some of her favorite stories again to Henry this weekend.

About three quarters of the way through her shift she feels her phone buzz in her apron. Once… twice… three times. So, not a text message but a phone call. She lets it ring out, but a few minutes later it’s buzzing yet again. Emma shoots Ruby a significant look from across the dining room, who understands the request to watch her tables, and ducks into the kitchen.

Her stomach clenches at the sight of Regina’s name on the screen. She’s almost certain that her high spirits are about to tank in a big way. She  _should_ just ignore it – she’s working after all – but she knows from hard earned experience that Regina would just keep calling and be more irritating when Emma finally did answer. So, mentally bracing herself for the worst, she hits the talk button.

“Can this wait?” She hisses, forgoing any sort of feigned civility. “I’m at work.”

“I would think Henry is more important than your  _job_ , Miss Swan,” Regina replies, the emphasis suggesting just what she thinks of doing something so menial like  _waitressing_  to earn a living, but she continues on before Emma can reply. “We need to switch weekends. Killian wants to take us to the lake.”

Emma grits her teeth. This is another of Regina’s favorite tactics: asking to change weekends at the last possible second and then guilt tripping Emma into agreeing by saying how disappointed Henry would be if she didn’t. “Can’t you do that another time?”

“The weather is good for it  _this_  Saturday. Besides, Killian is busy next weekend.”

“Funny how he is always busy on weekends you’re actually  _supposed_  to have Henry,” Emma sneers. If she hadn’t actually met the man (once; the result of a petty pissing match with Regina during which Emma insinuated she couldn’t be sure she trusted Killian around Henry until she got the chance to meet him) she’d think Regina had simply made up a boyfriend just for excuses like these.

“Oh  _please_ ,” is Regina’s reply and Emma can almost  _hear_  the eye roll that accompanies it. “What were  _you_  planning on doing with him this weekend that can’t possibly wait? Sitting in your apartment and watching cartoons?”

Emma doesn’t respond. The jibe stings, because, honestly, that’s probably _exactly_  what would end up happening, even with stories from the book to change things up. She doesn’t have the money to take Henry to Six Flags, or a cute boyfriend with a boat. Most weekends they spend together they end up having to walk anywhere they want to go because her car is on its last legs. Getting to have Henry overnight, even if it’s only every other weekend, was a huge step for her; a privilege granted to her for getting her life together, but it often feels like it’s all going to waste. All she has is a book – and how does that compare to a weekend on the lake? Why should Henry be punished  _again_  for her mistakes?

“Fine, whatever,” she says at length, feeling shame burn through her. “But remember that means I get two weekends in a row.”

“Oh, damn, I was hoping you’d forget that part,” Regina says dryly, but without the humor required for an honest joke. “Enjoy your weekend, Miss Swan.”

There is the unmistakable dead air of a phone call ended just before the dial tone starts, and Emma slides her phone back into her apron, fighting the urge to throw it across the room instead. This is just typical, really. It’s not that she has to wait a week to see Henry again – that’s annoying, but tolerable. No, it’s that, once again, Regina has managed to make her feel completely worthless as a mother on a day when she was actually starting to see some brightness in her future. It’s that ever since Emma got out of jail and was granted visitation her relationship with Regina has been _pointlessly_ hostile.

Okay, sure, Emma had been a little jealous that Henry had been calling Regina “mommy,” and maybe it was her fault that things got off on the wrong foot, but since that day Regina has made it her mission to put Emma down in every way imaginable. Emma knows the woman loves Henry (her only _good_ quality, in Emma’s opinion), but she doesn’t see why they can’t _both_ love him and take care of him without fighting all the time. She’s not unreasonable. She can share her son’s affection. But, apparently, Regina can’t.

Presently the door swings open and Ruby appears, a frown forming on her face as soon as she sees the expression on Emma’s.

“What’s up?” She asks, her tone tentative and concerned.

“Regina and I switched weekends again so she and her dumb fucking boyfriend can take Henry to the lake.”

Normally one might wonder why something so simple would cause Emma this much anger, but Ruby doesn’t even ask. She doesn’t have to, and Emma is grateful for it. She’s not up to detailing all the finer points of why she feels like garbage at the moment.

Instead, a comforting hand rests on her back and Ruby says, “Hey, why don’t you come out with us tomorrow night? Believe or Leave is playing at the Rabbit Hole. I’m sure Belle wouldn’t mind springing for you again. You had fun last time, remember?”

She must be expecting to have to _persuade_ Emma. But, after what Regina said, the last thing Emma wants to do is sit alone in her apartment eating Henry’s superhero mac and cheese and feeling sorry for herself. So, she says, “Yeah, alright.”

* * *

It turns out that Believe or Leave is just the opening act this time, but according to Ruby and Belle that’s actually a good thing. It won’t be as crowded during their set and they, the girls, get to leave earlier (the main act is a group called ‘Neverband,’ and Belle and Ruby make of fun of the name every chance they get – suffice it to say they aren’t interested in sticking around). Plus, the other two girls seem to hope that they’ll somehow run into Jefferson, Victor, and Gold again, and maybe even hang out like last week. Emma decides not to point out how they probably just got lucky last time and in any case the trip to Granny’s cost Ruby no small amount of money, lest she be branded a buzz kill within the first half hour of the night. 

“Alright!” Ruby exclaims, clapping her hands together as they enter the only slightly less crowded bar (lord, Emma is not looking forward to peeling off her skinny jeans and boots later; it is _indecently_ hot for being October). “Shots! If last week was about Emma loosening up, this week is about drowning her woes in alcohol and some damn good music. I’ll be right back!”

_Not helping, Red_ , Emma doesn’t say, but when Ruby returns with the aforementioned shots, she pounds hers back without preamble.

The girls are on their third round when Believe or Leave takes to the stage and Ruby is blessedly distracted from trying to get Emma wasted out of her mind. The three move to mix in with the crowd once the lights are lowered as Gold plucks out a low tune on his bass to start the set.

Maybe it’s the hard liquor in her veins (as opposed to her cocktails last week), or that she’s more endeared to the band than she thought she was because of their impromptu fourth meal at Granny’s, or perhaps she is just looking for a reason to let go, but Emma finds it easier this time to relax and enjoy the show. She and Belle even dance together through a few of the songs, something she’d certainly never do stone cold sober. A small, secret part of her hopes that Jefferson will spot her in the crowd and give her some kind of acknowledgement, but he seems almost moody and absorbed in the music.

About halfway through the set, Belle leaves Emma alone to go to the restroom (Ruby is, once again, nowhere to be found) but after three songs still hasn’t returned, and Emma wonders if she should fight her way through the throng to go find her friends. Belle is so small, it’s unlikely she’d be able to find her way back to Emma. She may have just gone to the bar to wait out the rest of the show.

“We’re gonna conduct a little experiment,” Jefferson was saying up on stage. “Hopefully it won’t suck. Y’all like mashups?” An interested cheer from the crowd responds to his question and he flashes a toothy grin, the most he’s smiled all night. “Good. This is _Undisclosed Starlight_.”

Emma’s ears prick immediately, recognizing the familiar opening strains of her favorite Muse song ever, and her search for the others is placed temporarily on hold. She’s torn between bristling and clapping appreciatively, recalling the conversation she had with Ruby earlier in the week on this very subject. But when Jefferson starts singing, it’s the wrong lyrics. It… works. Surprisingly well. After only a few stanzas, she has moved from skeptical to actively singing along, and when Jefferson’s voice rings out alone clear and strong on the last note she shivers a little despite the smothering warmth of the crowd. It’s been a while since a song gave her chills like that. Though she’d only felt lukewarm about the band’s music before tonight, now her opinion of them has drastically improved.

“That’s all for us guys, thanks for coming out! Stick around for Neverband!” Jefferson swings his guitar around to his back, performs some sort of twirly hand gesture as he bows before the cheering crowd, tips them all a lascivious wink, then disappears off stage, followed by Gold. Victor approaches the edge of the stage and tosses his drum sticks out into the mob of people beneath him (each are caught by a different shrieking fangirl), then follows his bandmates.

Now that the set is over, Emma stands up on her tiptoes and looks over to the bar for her pals but sees neither. _Perfect_. She edges toward one wall, eager to get out of the main body of the crowd and preferably to someplace quiet so she can call Belle, and finds herself near a merch table piled high with – what else – Believe or Leave paraphernalia. She’s not alone, either; a handful of other girls have made their way over and were forming a queue to make their purchases, her friends unfortunately not among them.  She shuffles out of the way, but sticks around, idly eying the various items. She spots a stack of CDs on the table in front of her and picks one up, flipping it over to look at the track list on the back. She’s somewhat amused to learn that many of the song titles appear to reference fairy tales, and she smiles in spite of herself. Mary Margaret would get a kick out of this – she wrote many of her own songs with fairy tales in mind.

She traces a finger over the little price sticker on the front. She knows Belle or Ruby would be happy to burn her a copy of theirs if she just asked, but, after meeting the band last week, stealing from them seems just plain wrong. It’s only 12 dollars – she can surely afford that, right? She does some quick math and budgeting in her head, so lost in her contemplations of her finances that she doesn’t notice the arrival of someone behind her until a voice says her name right in her ear.

“Emma?”

She jumps, startled, and, holy crap, it’s Jefferson. What, did she _summon_ him here or something? He looks good, she decides before her brain can clamp down on that train of thought. A little tired, maybe, but undeniably pleased to see her. He has a glass of scotch in one hand and the other is winding around her shoulders to pull into a brief half-hug.

“What are you doing here?” He asks. “I thought you had your son this week.”

“Change of plans,” Emma replies, trying to sound unconcerned, but the bitterness must’ve shown in her face because his expression melts into one of sympathy.

“That sucks, I’m sorry.” He doesn’t sound _completely_ sorry, but Emma appreciates the thought. “But, hey, I’m glad you decided to come again. Not a bad second place, right?” He pauses, seeming to sense how arrogant that came out, then asks, “Did you like the set?”

“I did,” Emma confirms, truthfully this time. “I really liked the –“ but she’s cut off by a nearby shriek of recognition from one of Jefferson’s more _enthusiastic_ fans. In fifteen seconds they have attracted a healthy crowed around the merch table, each girl (and the odd guy) clamoring for the front man’s attention.

“Ugh,” Jefferson mutters, barely audible over the din, “this is why I hate coming out on the floor.” He leans in close, probably so Emma can hear him properly. “I was just going outside to smoke. Want to come with?”

Emma spares half a thought for Ruby and Belle, lost somewhere amidst the mass of people, and their hopes of hanging with the band tonight, then figures, hey, _they_ abandoned _her_ after all. Their loss. “Sure,” she says with a smile, then remembers the CD in her hands. “Oh, let me just….” She makes to pull her debit card out of her purse, but Jefferson stops her.

“What? No, you don’t pay here.” He gives a look to the table attendant, who nods in understanding to the unspoken signal, then presses the CD into her hands. “Just take it. You want anything else? T-shirt, keychain?”

“No thanks,” Emma replies, hoping Jefferson doesn’t take it the wrong way.

He takes her hand instead, apparently unconcerned about the looks they are garnering, his head tilted toward the back of the club. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I can barely hear myself think.” He gives her hand a light tug and leads her along the back wall toward the stage, and, she notices after a minute, a side door leading outside.

They come out into the alley behind the building, mostly abandoned except for a few roadies loading equipment into a white van with the Believe or Leave logo splashed on the side. Jefferson acknowledges them each by name who in turn greet him before going back to work, and Emma is suddenly embarrassed to realize that he has not let go of her hand. As soon as the thought has entered her mind, of course, he does, throwing himself up against the side of the building and extracting a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pocket.

“Anyway,” he says, placing the cigarette between his lips and lighting it with practiced ease, “what were you saying, before you were so rudely interrupted?”

It takes Emma a second to remember. “Oh, I was just saying that I really liked that mashup. I wasn’t sure I would at first, since _Undisclosed Desires_ is my favorite Muse song of all time, but it was really good.”

Jefferson’s smile could light the darkened alley. “Really? I’m glad you liked it.”

“Yeah, I’m impressed that you managed to adapt it without keyboards. That couldn’t have been easy.”

“It wasn’t,” he confirms with a sigh. “We’ve been working on it forever. It was actually easier to match Starlight’s lyrics to the original backtracking, if you believe it.” He takes another drag. “Sometimes I wish we had a keyboardist.”

“Why don’t you get one?” Emma asks, genuinely interested.

Jefferson shrugs, “We’ve discussed it but, I don’t know, it wouldn’t be the same. The three of us came together and started doing this for _fun_. Adding a fourth guy – or girl, I guess – would be like admitting we’re serious about it, and that we’re willing to change our sound to do it. And yes, by the way, I know how pretentious and hipster that sounds.”

Emma tries – and fails – to suppress a grin, “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“I could tell you were thinking it.” He flicks some ash off the end of his cigarette, his expression easy and relaxed. “In any case, I can always fill in for keyboards if we _really_ needed them.”

“You play?”

“Piano, yeah. First instrument I learned, actually.”

Intrigued, Emma lifts her eyebrows. “ _First_? How many do you know?”

Jefferson holds up his free hand, ticking them off on his fingers, “Piano, cello, guitar, violin, and a little harp – shut up. Oh, and the cowbell of course.”

Emma rolls her eyes, snorting softly at the reference, but she’s impressed nonetheless. And just a little bit jealous. To learn that many instruments would take a tutor or private lessons of some kind, surely. A kid in a group home rarely got those kinds of opportunities, even if she had wanted them back then. She wants to compliment him on his dedication and, no doubt, talent for so many instruments but the words stick in her throat. It occurs to her that she’s flirting and the thought kind of terrifies her.

Thankfully, Jefferson moves on without noticing her sudden discomfort. “So, you like Muse. Who else do you listen to?”

“Well,” Emma replies hastily, thankful for the subject change, “I really love the Black Keys.”

“Nice, you have excellent taste. You know, we do a cover of _Howlin’ For You_ that’s pretty good, if I do say so myself.”

Emma folds her arms over her chest and squares her shoulders, the corner of her mouth quirking up slightly. “Yeah, Ruby mentioned that, and I gotta say, it’s gonna take more than a decent Muse mashup to convince me that you’re capable of filling Dan Auerbach’s shoes.” A moment too late she realizes that the comment sounds less like the friendly banter she meant it to be and more, well, just plain bitchy.

Jefferson lifts his eyebrows, but his playful smile stays in place. “Is that smack talk I hear? I guess you’ll just have to come to our next show, and I’ll prove it to you.”

“Fine,” Emma counters, “but you better tell Gold and Victor to bring their A game because I _will_ stage a walk out if it is anything less than mind blowing.”

“Deal.” Jefferson sticks out his hand for her to shake, which she does. “Right here, two weeks. Should give you ample time to prepare for your mind to be blown, don’t you think?”

_Crap_. “Oh, uh, I have Henry for the next two weekends.” She actually feels… disappointed.

Jefferson seems to be of the same mind, but he recovers quickly. “Well, no worries, I’ve got our schedule right here.” He drops the last quarter of his cigarette onto the pavement and crushes it beneath his boot, at the same time pulling a folded up piece of paper out of his back pocket. “We don’t have many more shows, though, after this month, since we’re taking a break for the holidays.”

He holds out the page for her to look at. There are only three more concerts left after tonight; two fall on weekends where she’s _supposed_ to have Henry and one is in the middle of the week. Theoretically, she could go to that one, provided she didn’t have to work that night _or_ the next morning, but barring actually asking for the time off she’d have no way of knowing until the shift schedule for that week came out.

“Looks like our schedules don’t match up,” she says, handing the paper back to him. Then, because she does feel bad, she adds, “Sorry.”

“Nah, it’s alright,” Jefferson replies, “I don’t blame you. I wish I got that much time with Grace.”

Emma feels a pang of sympathy. She wants to ask about his arrangement with his ex-wife, but she knows that if _he_ asked about her situation with Henry and Regina she would feel it in breach of her privacy. “I’m sorry,” she says again, a little softer this time. “I actually only get Henry every other weekend, and that’s still not as much as I’d like.”

Jefferson doesn’t say anything, only dips his head slightly in understanding.

They remain silent for a few moments longer and Emma can’t tell if he’s uncomfortable or not (she _definitely_ is). Just when she’s about to say something to try and call back the playful mood they’d been in just a few minutes earlier, the door they came through bursts open and out comes the short curly-haired woman from last week. She’s wearing a new blue monstrosity of a dress this time.

“So this is where you snuck off to!” Her tone is chastising as she approaches. “Come on, don’t be shy. It’s time for the meet and greet – oh.” She stops when she spots Emma and a sly smile crawls across her face. “I see you’re having your own _private_ meet ‘n greet.”

Jefferson rolls his eyes as he pushes off the wall. “Shut _up_ , Stella. I’m coming.”

“That’s what she –“

“Shut UP Stella, and go away.”

Stella cackles and winks at Emma as she traipses back inside. Emma can’t decide if she likes her or not.

“Sorry about her,” Jefferson says, gesturing to the door. “That’s our manager, Stella. She’s –“

Emma holds up a hand, “Wait, no, did she say you were _shy_?”

If she didn’t know any better, Emma would say that Jefferson blushes. “It’s not that I’m _shy_ , I just…. Meeting fans is weird, you know. Victor thinks it’s the coolest thing in the world, but, for me, it’s just uncomfortable.”

“You talk to me just fine,” Emma points out.

“Yeah, well.” Jefferson turns his head just _so_ and the dim light of the alley catches his eyes as he locks his gaze on her. “You’re special.”

In her mind, she knows the words _shouldn’t_ make her want to cry, but they do. She looks away, her throat tight. “You’re insane,” she murmurs, trying to make it light enough to be taken as a joke.

She must have failed because Jefferson tenses just outside her field of vision and she fiercely wishes she could take the words back.

“See you around, Emma,” he says, his tone colder than she ever remembers hearing in their short acquaintance, and he turns to go back inside the bar, leaving her alone in the alley.

A moment later a buzzing in her pocket informs her that someone is calling, and a quick look at the screen tells her that it’s Ruby. After being missing most of the night, Emma should pick up and chew her out for abandoning her, but instead she ignores the call and heads toward the street to get a cab back home.

She screwed up again and it hurts her more than she’d like to admit. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can listen to Undisclosed Starlight here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v2yIOiIQpDU


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Emma reaches her apartment she has a fully formed plan in her head to alleviate this recent bout of disappointment. It’s simple: allow herself exactly 24 hours to mope and feel sorry for herself, and then, when that allotted time is up, build a bridge and get the hell over it. Honestly, she has more important things to do than dwell on the stupid thing she said to the guy she likes.

Admitting she actually _likes_ Jefferson is part of the process too. She could try to continue denying it, but she knows from experience that would only make things worse. Better to deal with it head-on, otherwise she’d end up feeling mysteriously sad and lonely any time she listened to Muse, or saw a guy with eyes like his ( _as if anyone else could have eyes like his_ ).

 _Of course_ she likes Jefferson. Furthermore, it takes her less than five minutes of devoting thought to it to pinpoint exactly _why_ she likes him. He loves his daughter. It really is that simple. His dedication and desire to be with her, which was evident in just a few short meetings, stirs up what Emma thought were long-dead feelings; memories of wishing for a daddy of her own and the overwhelming sadness that Henry’s father turned out to be a man her son would never know. She’d literally never met a man who was a good parent until now. Is it no small wonder she’d be attracted to the first?

She decides her 24 hours begin at 11:08 when she walks in the front door to her apartment (after a quick, but, in her opinion, necessary detour to Amy’s Ice Cream). 24 hours to lay around in sweatpants, binge on sweets, listen to sad music, and all the other things those girls in romcoms do when they’re down in the dumps. Starting with a bath. She draws as hot as one she can manage and settles on the couch to devour her two scoops of cherry chocolate cheesecake ice cream while the tub slowly fills.

Being a good dad isn’t the only thing she likes about him, Emma acknowledges inwardly as she sinks into the water amidst the half-hearted foam her cheap bubble bath managed to conjure. She appreciated that _he_ asked questions about _her_ , even if it was just about her taste in music, and seemed genuinely interested in her answers. Like, he actually cared about getting to know her. And how he told her that Henry is more important than him. Not that she didn’t know that before, but, still, it was refreshing to hear.

Then there are all the shallow reasons: the nigh on _indescribable_ shade of his eyes, the hair she’d love to tangle her fingers in, the shape of his face which happens to be almost exactly her “type” if she ever had one, the electricity she feels when he looks at her, not quite like he’s undressing her with his eyes but she wouldn’t mind even if he was. That’s not even mentioning his _hands_ , or the perfect amount of stubble on his chin, or how _hot_ he managed to make that ridiculous getup of a stage costume look….

Oh, yeah. Safe to say she’s got it bad. She hasn’t had a crush this intense since Neal. Worse still, Jefferson seemed to like her too. At least until she ruined things with her mouth. She lets out a soft moan and retreats further into the water at the memory. She’s not sure how, or why, but she must have struck a nerve when she called him insane. And, lord, isn’t that a red flag right there? _Now, now,_ she scolds herself, _that’s not fair. It’s not like you’re Suzy Spotless-Record._

Emma broods moodily on that thought until the water is no longer hospitable, at which point she pulls herself out of the tub and into her fraying robe. As she wanders back into the living room she finds herself wishing she had a bottle of wine – another luxury she usually can’t afford week to week. She settles for a mug of hot chocolate sprinkled with cinnamon and suddenly finds herself flooded with memories of sharing this apartment with Mary Margaret.

With that extra layer of sadness weighing her down, Emma crouches next to her TV to pick out a movie, but nothing, not even her tried and true favorites, sound appealing. Sighing, she decides to just call it a night. She’s halfway to the sink to dump out her freshly made hot chocolate when she gets an idea, and instead she takes the mug with her into the bedroom.

She sets her drink down on the bedside table Mary Margaret left for her and quickly pulls on her pajamas, then crawls into bed. Once she’s nestled nicely between the sheets she reaches toward the floor, groping blindly until her hand finds what she’s looking for: her story book.

Her fingers flick through the pages with a muscle memory born from repetition beyond measure, until she reaches her favorite story of them all. It’s a retelling of Alice in Wonderland that focuses on the Mad Hatter instead of Alice. It tells the story of how he became the famed hatter and is a shockingly compelling read for being a short little story inserted among dozens in a compilation of fairy tales.

Forty five minutes later she puts the book down, her mind delightfully distracted. But it doesn’t stay that way for long. Not a quarter of an hour after she’s clicked off her light does it occur to her that Jefferson and her Hatter are similar in a lot of ways. The Hatter in the story also has a daughter, one that he became separated from, and it was the grief that drove him mad.

 _Stop it, Emma,_ she scolds herself. _You don’t need to make this crush any worse by comparing him to your favorite literary character of all time._

She forces her thoughts to Mary Margaret instead. She’d be perfect for a night like this. She’d rub Emma’s feet and tell her she’s being too hard on herself; that there’s no reason to think she screwed everything up with Jefferson with one harmless comment and, if she _did_ , then he wasn’t worth her time anyway.

 _That’s a good point_ , Emma tells both herself and the imaginary Mary Margaret. “Thanks MM,” she says aloud into the silent stillness of her apartment. She can almost hear the reply.

“Any time, Emma.”

 

The next morning marks the second time in a week that Emma is rudely awakened. This time the culprit is not her alarm (she thankfully remembered to disable it last night, for all the good it’s doing her now), but someone’s fist pounding insistently on her front door. She fumbles for her phone to check the time – 8:30 – and groans at the interruption of what had been plans to sleep in. Whoever is on the other side of that door better have a damn good reason for waking her.

However, her anger is, at least momentarily, outweighed by surprise when in stumbles Belle and Ruby.

“What the hell?” Emma says, stepping aside to let them into the living room proper. “How are you guys even conscious?”

“ _She_ hasn’t been to bed yet,” Belle explains, nudging Ruby, who giggles and flops gracelessly onto the couch. Belle, however, squares her shoulders and levels what might be called a glare, but Emma can see the humor behind it. “We’ve got a bone to pick with you, Swan. You’ve been holding out on us!”

“Huh?” Emma replies, confused and distracted as she moves into the kitchen to start Ruby’s breakfast.

“What the hell happened to you last night?”

“Yeah, what the hell?” Ruby parrots with another giggle, evidently still a little bit drunk.

Emma pauses her coffee preparations. “What the hell happened to _me?_ What the hell happened to you guys? Yall were like, ‘Oh, it’ll be great. We’ll have some drinks and forget all about that witch.’ And then you ditch me on the dance floor in the middle of the set!”

“We were trying to score meet and greet passes!” Ruby says, as if this explains – and excuses – everything.

“Successfully, I might add,” Belle cuts in, grinning now. “We tried calling you.”

“I was already on my way home,” Emma replies grumpily.

“Oh, _really?_ ” Ruby asks, her tone matching Belle’s sly smile and now Emma is truly unnerved. “So, you _weren’t_ hanging out with Jefferson behind the building all by yourself?”

Emma stops altogether, her eyes moving to Belle, who nods in confirmation.

“Oh, yeah. He told us.”

Feeling self-conscious, Emma returns to making breakfast. She had planned on telling her friends about meeting Jefferson again, but she didn’t expect it to happen like this, not when she’s still trying to crush her, well, crush out of existence. Some traitorous part of her wants to ask if Jefferson seemed angry with her, but it seems she’s going to get the third degree before she has the chance to make any inquiries of her own.

“So, spill!” Ruby says, coming over to lean on the bar. “How the hell did that happen? And, more importantly, why didn’t you call us?”

“It wasn’t a big deal, really,” Emma replies with a shrug. “I was standing over by the merch table looking for you guys and he happened to come over. He said he was going outside to smoke and invited me to come with him, so I did. And I didn’t call you guys, ‘cause, well, I was pissed that yall ditched me.”

“We didn’t ditch you!” Ruby protests.

“Well, you didn’t exactly tell me where you were going, either.”

“And,” Belle says loudly, focusing the conversation back to what she obviously thinks is the most important matter at hand, “what did you talk about?”

Emma shrugs again. “Nothing. Music. He invited me to come out to another show so he could show me their _Howlin’ For You_ cover and I told him I couldn’t go. And that was it. He went back inside to do the meet and greet, and I came home.”

Ruby groans, dropping her head between her hands. “No, Emma, why would you tell him you can’t go?”

“Uh, because I can’t,” Emma says sliding Ruby’s now completed sandwich toward her. “I have Henry, remember? And taking a five year old to a crowded bar just _might_ get me in trouble with my social worker.”

“You’re such a mom,” Ruby replies around a mouthful of bacon.

Emma knows the remark isn’t exactly meant kindly, but it warms her anyway and takes the edge off her irritation. She turns to her other friend, “Belle, want a sandwich?”

Belle wrinkles her nose slightly. “No, thanks. I will take some of that coffee when it’s ready, though.”

Once said coffee is poured and Ruby is happily digesting her sandwich, Emma asks, aiming for nonchalance but not quite making it, “So, how did the meet and greet go?”

Ruby and Belle exchange a look, identical grins on their faces.

“Do you want to go first?” Belle offers.

“It was _awesome_ ,” Ruby say without further ado, practically bouncing with impatience to tell the story. “The guys remembered us from last time!”

“Like, our names and everything,” Belle supplies. “And when Jefferson came in he smiled and said he’d just been talking to you.”

“Oh, so, he didn’t seem like he was in a bad mood or anything?” Emma cringes inwardly as the question slips out, and Belle, smart as a whip, instantly picks up on it.

“He was a little withdrawn, I guess,” she says slowly, as if she’s reflecting back on their interactions with him, “but Gold said that’s just how he is around most people. Why, what –“

“Uh, guys, I was trying to tell a story here,” Ruby interrupts.

Belle gives Emma a look, signifying _that_ conversation isn’t over, but says, “Yes, sorry, go ahead.”

“Well, the whole thing only lasted about half an hour and we weren’t the only ones there, you know, so they weren’t talking to us the whole time. But after it was over, Victor invited everyone to go bar hopping with him. So, it ended up being me and this one other girl, Jessica –“

“Wait,” Emma cuts in, “so, out of everyone only _two_ people wanted to hang out with him?”

Ruby huffs her irritation. “Well, I guess those other bitches only cared about Gold and Jefferson. Pfft, as if Victor isn’t the hottest one of them all.”

“Don’t complain!” Belle chides. “That means you got him all to yourself! Well, almost.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?” Emma asks Belle.

“She was otherwise occupied,” Ruby says smugly, and Belle blushes, if only faintly. “Anyway, so, me, Victor, and this girl Jessica go bar hopping, and I swear, Em, it was like a music video for that one Katy Perry song. We actually got kicked out of one place because Victor tried crowd surfing like a dumbass and ended up breaking a table.”

Belle and Emma snort into their coffee. “Well, if that’s what happened, I’m glad I didn’t go,” Belle mutters.

“I’m not done yet. So, once it starts getting to be last call, Victor says he’s not done having fun yet. So get this, _he invites us over to his house._ ”

“Oh my god –“

“—no way—“

Ruby nods, looking every bit like the wolf who caught the canary.

“Oh, Ruby,” Emma moans, covering her eyes with her hand, “tell me you didn’t.”

“Are you kidding?” Ruby asks. “Victor Whale of Believe or Leave parties all night with me and then asks me back to his place? Hell yeah, I did! We all caught a cab and he took us to his condo. He put on some music, poured us some drinks, and we just sorta hung out. Jessica ended up falling asleep on his couch.”

“And did you…?” Belle begins.

“Sleep with him? No.” Ruby grins wickedly. “Not this time. We just talked. You know, he’s actually a really cool guy. He was training to be a doctor before they started the band, and once they started getting gigs he decided to pursue music instead. Put him on the outs with his dad, I guess. We have that in common.” She takes a long drink from her coffee (no beer this morning). “Anyway, he was starting to crash as the sun was coming up, so I left and went to Belle’s.” She turns to the curly haired brunette at that. “And now it’s your turn.”

Belle tries to suppress a smile, but fails miserably. “Well, my story isn’t nearly as exciting as yours, I’m afraid. Gold and I just talked a bit, that’s all.”

“Oh, please,” Ruby says, rolling her eyes. “She’s being too modest. He was practically glued to her side the whole time. The only time he went to talk to other people is when their manager got on his case about it.”

“So, what did you two talk about?” Emma asks.

“Work mostly,” Belle replies. “Our jobs or somewhat similar. You know, vintage books and antiques. He told me about his shop and I told him about mine. He said he has a couple pieces I might be interested in and wanted to know if I’d come have a look. So, he gave me the address to his shop, then he put me in a cab and I came home.”

“Wow, you’re pretty vanilla for a groupie,” Emma says, taking a sip of coffee.

“I’m not a groupie!”

This statement is met with matching disbelieving stares from the other two girls, and Belle is forced to concede.

“Okay, maybe a little, tiny, _tiny_ bit.”

“So, when are you going to go see him?” Emma asks.

“I’m not going to see _him_ ,” Belle corrects primly. “I’m going to go take a look at his _books_.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it these days?” Interjects Ruby, who then shares a high five with Emma.

Belle holds her head up through her friends’ teasing, and when they’re done laughing she turns to Emma. “And now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?” Repeats Emma. “I already went.”

“Not quite the whole story, though,” Belle says. “I want to hear why you thought he would be in a bad mood for the meet and greet.” Her expression turns serious, protective even. “Was he rude to you? Did he do something inappropriate?”

“What? No!” Emma rolls her shoulders, trying to ease some of the tension that has settled there. “No, we were just talking and I sort of jokingly called him insane, and he must have taken me seriously or something ‘cause he got all cold and weird, and went back inside.”

“What on earth did he do to make you say that?” Belle presses.

“Hold on, I think I’m going to be sick,” Ruby says suddenly, looking much paler now than she did when they first arrived. Without hesitating a moment longer, she bolts for the bathroom and slams the door behind her.

There is a brief pause during which they can hear Ruby retching weakly, then Belle says, “That probably didn’t have anything to do with you, but –“ she sighs, “Emma, really, what did he do? What’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” Emma mumbles, shamefaced. “Just… he said I was special, okay? He-he said he liked talking to me because I was special.”

Then Belle gets that look on her face that Emma hates; pitying in every sense of the word. She wants nothing less than to listen to what Belle is about to say, but she can’t escape, or throw Belle out, or simply deflect the conversation without making it worse.

“Emma,” she begins in a tone so gentle that it’s already too much for Emma to handle.

“Belle, don’t. I really don’t want to hear it.”

“Do you know why Ruby and I are friends with you?” Belle continues, undaunted by Emma’s attempt to avoid the topic.

 _Pity_ , Emma thinks irritably, but Belle continues speaking before she has the chance to say it out loud.

“Because _you’re_ friends with _us_. The best we could ever ask for. It often seems like our personalities don’t really go together at all, but you still tolerate it when we tease you, you listen when we need to let it out, you take care of us when we’re low. You just made Ruby a sandwich, for heaven’s sake! Do you have any idea how amazing and _wonderful_ that is? Emma you _are_ special! You’re special to me, and to Ruby, and, apparently, to Jefferson too. And I’ll never understand why that scares the hell out of you, but being scared doesn’t make it untrue. And if you can just accept it and believe, and let yourself be special to someone without fighting it so hard, then maybe you’ll find that there are people who are special to you too. And that’s a good thing.”

Emma can’t seem to take her eyes off this little crumb of bacon that fell out of Ruby’s sandwich and onto the bar. She’s not crying, but it’s a very near miss. Finally, after several moments of tense silence, she says without looking up, “You’re special to me.”

Belle’s smile is evident in her voice. “See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“Shut up.” And now Emma is smiling too. It’s strange – she doesn’t feel all that different from a moment before. She still finds it hard to believe that there’s something so unique about her that it makes Jefferson open up. She still thinks that Belle and Ruby only started hanging out with her because she was friends with Mary Margaret. She’s still just a single mom with no family and a dead end job. But, despite all that, her heart feels just a bit lighter and that’s all it takes to lift her head.

In the bathroom the shower creaks on, temporarily distracting them both, but Emma’s respite from the conversation is short lived, because when Belle speaks again a few minutes later there is a distinctly sly lilt in her voice.

“So, you really like Jefferson, don’t you?”

“I don’t remember saying that,” Emma replies as casually as possible, seeking refuge in her coffee cup.

Belle is full-on _smirking_ now. “Yeah, but… you did.” She pauses a few moments, evidently waiting to see if Emma is going to volunteer information herself ( _not a chance; if she wants details she’s going to have to work for it_ ), but when it becomes clear that she will not the brunette presses, “So? What are you going to do?”

“What do you mean, what am I going to do?” Emma thought that her doing _nothing_ was pretty obvious.

“Well? Are you going to see him again?”

“How would I do that?” Emma replies, starting to clean up Ruby’s dishes so that she has something else to focus on. “We’ve seen each other a grand total of twice, both at his shows, and I can’t make it to any more of those this year. And, hell, we don’t know jack about each other. I know he has a daughter that’s Henry’s age, and….” She trails off, trying to recall any other personal details he gave her, but comes up empty. “And, that’s it.”

Belle frowns sadly, and Emma can’t figure out why. This is _her_ stupid crush, there’s no need for her friends to get all worked up over it, right? The silence stretches into minutes and Emma thinks she’s finally free of the topic, when suddenly Belle gets a smile on her face that makes her a little nervous.

“Well, don’t give up hope. Maybe you’ll run into him somewhere else.”

Emma finds the idea extremely suspicious, and is about to tell Belle so, but Ruby stumbling back out of the bathroom wearing naught but a towel puts an end to the conversation once and for all.

* * *

 

Despite her pep talk from Belle, Emma decides to plow on with The Plan anyway and does her utmost to make sure that she is completely over her crush. Which, when she realizes she’s _not_ , means that most of her week is spent stalwartly avoiding anything that makes her think Jefferson. She can’t say for sure that it’s working out, especially when her closest friends are determined to _make_ her think about him (Belle must have filled Ruby in, because as soon as she recovered from the hangover from hell Ruby joined in with the inquisition). The worst of it comes when Belle reminds her to call Graham and let him down gently. Emma’s not even sure she can _do_ gentle. She’s _definitely_ sure she never meant to lead him to believe she was interested in him in the first place.

The phone call is every bit as awkward as she dreaded it would be. She stammers and fumbles for excuses, but in the end comes right out with the truth. Worse still, Graham is a complete gentleman about it and seems to genuinely harbor no hard feelings, which makes Emma feel even worse. They agree they’ll “see each other around,” something Emma has no doubt of, with Belle as their mutual friend.

In the end, having Henry over proves to be to be the best, and most welcome, distraction. Even Regina seems to be in a good enough mood when Emma pulls into the driveway Friday evening (which means they don’t speak beyond cursory greetings) and that in and of itself should indicate a great weekend ahead of them. Henry is a little more tan than when she last saw him, no doubt a relic from the lake trip, but every bit as happy to see her as he always is, and that’s all it takes to wash away any and all negative feelings that have been dogging her the last few weeks.

“Whatcha want for dinner, kiddo?” Emma asks as she backs her Honda out the driveway.

“Pancakes!” Henry announces without preamble.

“Pancakes? But that’s a breakfast food!”

In the rearview mirror, Emma can see Henry fold his arms over his chest. “Pancakes can be a dinner food too.” He tells her matter-of-factly.

She can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll tell you what, how about we have spaghetti tonight, and tomorrow we’ll have pancakes at Granny’s for breakfast?”

That certainly seems appealing; he practically starts bouncing in his booster seat. “Granny, Granny, Granny!”

“Tomorrow, kid, _tomorrow._ Deal?”

“Deal!”

The rest of the ride home (and for a good half hour after they’ve reached the apartment) Henry spends telling her all about his trip to the lake with Regina and Killian. She’s more than a little jealous, but she’s at least gratified to realize that she made the right decision in letting him go. It sounds like he had a really great time, especially when Killian let him steer the boat.

Later, during dinner, Henry pauses mid-noodle slurp to ask, “Mom, am I coming over next weekend too?”

 _If Regina actually keeps her word,_ Emma thinks privately. Aloud, she says, “Yep. Chew your food, please.”

“Oh.” A pause as he hastily tries to clear his mouth. “My friends Ava and Nicholas are having a slumber party for their birthday. Can I go?”

“When is it?” Emma asks, her heart sinking shamefully.

Henry jumps off his chair and runs to his backpack. When he returns to the table he’s carrying a colorful invitation, and, before he can even hand it to her, Emma can see the date in big font near the top: a week from Saturday. Square in the middle of the weekend she wouldn’t have with him if Regina hadn’t insisted on trading.

Emma stares into her plate of spaghetti, suddenly wishing she had made baked potatoes so that she could mash her fork into one and pretend it was Regina’s face. She _had_ to have planned it this way, Emma is convinced. And for what? Emma is only allowed about fifty days a year with him, and the rest are Regina’s. Losing _one_ night isn’t nearly as devastating to her as it is to Emma. _So what’s the point of robbing me of one?_

She’s shaking with rage by the time she realizes that Henry is watching her with a mixed expression of both hope and disappointment, like she’s already said no.

“Mom said you wouldn’t let me, but can I go? _Please._ ”

He draws out the last word and summons his best puppy eyes, but he needn’t bother. It was the first part of his sentence that bleeds the fight out of her. She’s still mad as hell, but she knows better than to take it out on her son.

“ _Of course_ you can go!” She says as if it were obvious, forcing a smile. “How about we go to the mall tomorrow and pick out some presents for them after breakfast?”

“Yes!” Henry literally jumps in the air, he’s so excited, then leaps at her for a hug. “Thanks, Mom!”

 _Never let it be said that I’m a bad mother,_ Emma thinks viciously at Regina.

She’s in a black mood now, but it doesn’t persist in the face of Henry’s cheerful chattering. By the time she’s washing the dishes (Henry sitting at the table with a coloring book, telling her all about his friends) her fury has chilled to merely anger. Afterward, when Henry suggests they watch Tron together before bed it fades to irritation. And, when they are falling sleep cuddled closely together on the couch she finds it hard to remember why she was mad at all.

 

The next morning, as promised, they go to Granny’s for breakfast, and Granny is all too happy to serve up Henry’s pancakes herself. For his part, Henry eats up the attention the older woman lavishes on him. She’s like his very own grandmother, which is something special to him since he doesn’t really have any. A grandmother who sneaks him two extra pieces of bacon and one more pancake than the short stack calls for. After gorging himself on all that food, plus two big cups of chocolate milk, it’s no wonder when he announces that he has to go potty before they leave.

Emma’s eyes track Henry until he disappears around the corner and the dull thud of the bathroom door opening, then closing, is heard. She drains the last dregs of her coffee and no sooner has the mug touched the countertop than Granny is there to refill it for her.

“I can’t believe how fast he’s growing,” she says conversationally as she pours. “When does he turn six?”

“April 5th,” replies Emma with a sigh. “It feels like I’m missing so much of his life.”

Granny pats her hand sympathetically but doesn’t reply. Emma understands; what can she say, after all? After a moment, she changes the subject. “So, Emma, I’ve been meaning to ask you a favor.”

“Sure, anything,” Emma agrees, hastily shoving her troubles aside.

The older woman sets the coffee pot down and leans her forearms on the counter, looking quite serious. “I want you to talk Ruby into working Saturday nights from now on.”

Emma chokes on her coffee, her throat and eyes stinging. “You’re kidding, right?” She asks weakly once she’s recovered enough to speak. “She’d laugh at me to start with and probably stop speaking to me altogether if she realized I was serious.”

Granny sighs, tousling her closely cropped curls with frustration. “Stubborn girl. What on earth am I going to do with her?”

“With all due respect, ma’am,” Emma ventures, feeling brave, “but, why do you need do anything with her? She’s a young woman, why not let her enjoy herself? Obviously trying to rein her in is having the opposite effect. If you keep trying to control her behavior you’re going to end up losing her.”

“She’s 25,” Granny replies with an edge in her voice. “She’s never had a real job beyond this one, she’s never even shown an interest in getting one. Enjoying yourself is fine for a while, but I’m not going to be around forever. I can support her and her habits for now, but what happens to her when I’m gone? She’s not ready to inherit this place, she’ll end up losing it! And then where will she go? She’s never even lived on her own before. She can’t keep depending on hand outs from her friends her whole life!”

Emma sits back in her seat, stunned. She’s heard this argument many times, but only ever from Ruby’s side. It never occurred to her that Granny’s strict rules might actually be for a reason. Except, she realizes now, the woman isn’t really that strict. Ruby tends to be fiercely independent, especially when she feels like her choices are being taken away. The rules Granny impose seem only to be for their mutual benefit, yet Ruby sees them as an infringement on her rights. In many ways she’s actually quite spoiled.

“You’re right, though,” Granny continues, throwing Emma for another loop. “I don’t know if she even _wants_ the diner anymore.”

“Did she ever?”

Granny chuckles, her smile a touch bittersweet. “It was all she could talk about when she was eight or nine. She even took a few business classes after high school, but sometime between then and now she just… stopped caring.”

Emma digests this information. She never knew about Ruby taking classes. In the few years she’s known her, not once has her friend talked about taking over management of the diner. She always talked about her waitressing job as a sure thing, something that would never change, and that was the end of it. “Wait,” she says after a moment, “what does this have to do with her working Saturday nights?”

“I want to start training her how to do the books,” Granny replies, straightening up and scratching at the scars on her left arm.

“On Saturday nights?” Emma can smell bullshit a mile off and Granny should know by now not to try to slip some by her. She lifts her eyebrows and waits for her boss to come clean.

Fortunately, Granny doesn’t seem angry with her. Her lip even quirks slightly. “I thought if I prevented her from doing irresponsible things the responsibilities I wanted to give her would actually take.”

“So schedule her for Sunday mornings from now on instead,” Emma suggests. “Early. Early enough that you can do the books before the brunch crowd gets in. That way you’re not technically keeping her from going out clubbing, but eventually she’ll learn that doing so will bite her in the ass. And, in the meantime, I’ll see about finding out if she still _wants_ the diner. If she does, great, you’ll be on the right track, and if she doesn’t… well, at least you’ll have your answer.”

Granny breaks into a true smile at that. “Once again, Emma, you’ve shown me that you know my own granddaughter better than I do. Thank you.”

“Any time,” Emma replies, taking a bite of her bacon. “Just do me a favor and don’t tell her it was my idea.”

“You have my word.”

 

The trip to the mall with Henry is actually _fun_ , despite Emma’s apprehension to spend money. It’s odd to be picking out toys for someone other than Henry, but he helps her out, telling her about his friends’ hobbies and favorite things. She feels a little awkward when they pick out the Easy Bake Oven for _Nicholas_ , but Henry is convinced it’ll get tons of use, and, besides, they managed to find one in a gender neutral color. They struggle a bit with Ava, but eventually settle on… a slingshot of all things.

The two finish off their day with a trip to the playground near Emma’s apartment building. There are a few other children there about Henry’s age, but they don’t seem terribly interested in letting her son join them.

 _Little jerks_ , Emma thinks meanly.

Shortly after being shunned for the third time Henry decides he wants to go home, a little less spirited than before.

As they trudge home in silence Emma finds herself brooding again about the sleepover the following weekend. But, this time, she’s not getting herself worked up over Regina’s manipulation. Rather, she’s more wishing that Henry had friends in _her_ neighborhood too. She wishes he could have friends come over to _her_ place for a slumber party (unlikely in the best of circumstances since her apartment is much too small for that, but, still). She wishes he had more to look forward to during her weekends, since she doubts she’s enough.

They have a dinner of pork chops and scalloped potatoes, and Emma remembers afterward to actually unfold the couch-bed for Henry tonight. As bed time approaches, she decides it’s time to bring out the story book.

“You’re gonna read me a story?” Henry asks as soon as he spots the book in her hands, and Emma is pleased that he appears to be excited by the prospect.

“Sure am, kiddo. Scoot over.” She crawls onto the thin, pokey mattress and settles in next to him, laying the book on her lap. She doesn’t open it right away, and instead runs her hands over the cover with reverence. “And not just any story. One of _these_ stories. This book is special, you know why?”

“Why?” Henry asks, his eyes wide.

Emma lowers her voice mysteriously, “Because the stories in it are _magical_.”

“Mom told me there’s no such thing as magic,” Henry says, his voice just as quiet, though with a hint of skepticism now.

“Of course she did,” Emma replies, rolling her eyes slightly. “But that’s just because she doesn’t believe that magic _can_ exist. We know better though, don’t we? We know magic is real, as long as we believe, right?”

Henry nods solemnly, and Emma could swear he’s shivering with anticipation. “What can the book magic do?” He asks.

“Well,” Emma says slowly, wondering just how to put the way the book made her feel into words. “It… makes you strong. It makes you brave. It makes you… the hero of your own story.”

“Nuh-uh!” Henry challenges, thankfully not old enough to realize how corny Emma is being.

“It’s true!” She insists. “It worked for me! When I was a kid, I was alone all the time and that made me scared.” God, why is she choking up? She _practiced_ telling this story. “But, I read this book every night and the more I read it the _braver_ I felt. Then I realized that I didn’t need a king and a queen to come find me and save me, because I could save myself.”

Henry frowns. “That’s not really magic, Mom.”

 _Caught_. Emma swallows the lump in her throat. “Tell you what,” she replies, opening the front cover of the book, “let’s read a story and we’ll see if that changes your mind. Now, which one do you want to hear?”

He chooses Snow White, which makes Emma smile. It’s another of her favorites. He’s asleep before the heroine and Prince Charming have even made it to the troll bridge, and Emma goes to bed hoping it made the same impression on him that it did on her the first time she read it all those years ago.

 

The next morning, Henry seems to have forgotten all about the book. Emma is a little disappointed, but she doesn’t force the issue. Their last few hours together are spent lazily. Henry drags out the big box of legos Emma keeps for him and makes his usual mess in the living room, aided and abetted by Emma herself at times. Together they make a lopsided, multi-colored approximation of a castle – complete with a prince and princess, and Emma can’t help but snap a photo of it on her phone.

It’s not until after they’ve cleaned up the blocks, and Emma is repacking Henry’s backpack in preparation to take him back to Regina’s, that Henry comes to her carrying the book that looks way too large for his hands.

“Mom,” he says somewhat timidly, “can I borrow this?”

Emma feels her heart constrict with how much she loves her son in this moment. “Absolutely,” she replies, resisting the urge to crush him into a hug. “Take good care of it, okay? Remember, it’s a special book.”

Henry nods, clearly taking this very seriously, and hands it to her to put in his bag.

Later, after she’s dropped Henry off and returned home alone, she feels a little bit lonelier without the book in her apartment. But she gets a strange, fuzzy feeling in her stomach when she realizes that it’s not lost or gone – it’s with _Henry_. And Henry will be reading it and absorbing the stories into his little five year old person, and through them they will be connected again.

And that’s definitely worth the loneliness.

 

* * *

 

It’s safe to say, then, that this week is off to a much better start. Emma is, of course, still bummed about losing Henry for a night but there is something about being the parent to drop him off at his friends’ house, meet the twins’ father (who will be supervising the party), and pick Henry up again in the morning that thrills her. It’ll almost be like being a real mom again. She can get excited for that.

On Wednesday, while at work, she gets a shock that she couldn’t have predicted, when in walks none other than Jefferson, looking like he just got off a motorcycle with his leather jacket, aviators, and windswept hair.

 _Wow, that is just not fair,_ Emma thinks before exclaiming aloud, “Jefferson!” She kind of hates how pleased she both sounds and _feels_ to see him, but, if she’s being honest with herself, how can she not when he comes in looking like that? She quickly pulls out her notebook in an effort to appear more nonchalant, or, at least, _professional_. “What can I get for you?”

“Oh, I’m so glad you didn’t say, ‘What are you doing here?’” He says, speaking oddly fast. He takes off his sunglasses and hangs them from the collar of his shirt, then chooses a seat directly in front of her. “I mean, how cliché can you get? I’ll have a cup of tea to start, please and thank you.”

“Earl Grey alright?” She asks, one hand already drifting toward the handle of the pot. 

“Earl Grey will do nicely.” Jefferson leans forward on his stool and rests his arms on the bar, watching her silently as she fills his cup, which gives Emma the acute and uncomfortable sensation of being scrutinized.

“At the risk of sounding cliché,” she ventures eventually, setting the tea pot back on the warmer, “what brings you out this way?”

Jefferson grins, his eyes a bit wide with, what Emma guesses to be, earnestness. “You.”

A beat passes, the same one her heart skips. “Wow,” she says, feeling a touch hot in the collar. “You just came right out and said it.”

“I always thought the best approach was the direct one,” Jefferson replies, unfazed and still smiling dazzlingly. He takes a sip of his tea, then says by way of explanation, “You said I wasn’t going to see you at any more shows this year, so it was obviously up to me to come see you.”

Emma can’t think of what to say to that. Half of her is just happy that he wasn’t upset about what she said at the show; the other half is annoyed that this meeting is taking place while she’s wearing her greasy work uniform and reeking of French fries.

Meanwhile, Jefferson is scanning the menu, evidently not put off by Emma’s awkward lack of reply, something for which she is extremely grateful. “I think I’ll have the half pound bacon cheeseburger,” he decides after a moment, “with the steak fries and – oh!” He looks up at her, his smile turning mischievous. “Do you have avocado?”

A surprised laugh bursts from Emma’s chest at the reference the request was obviously intended to be. “You found it, huh?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly _looking_ for it, but Victor was. He found it on youtube and sent me the link.”

“It’s on youtube?” Emma groans with second-hand embarrassment.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Jefferson assures her, grinning. “There were only like 75 views, and I’m pretty sure half of those were Victor. Besides, it’s not like _you_ were in it.”

“Something I insisted on, thank you very much,” Emma replies. “It was hard enough _watching_ Ruby embarrass herself, much less do it myself.”

Jefferson laughs openly and takes a hearty swig of tea. “You know, it’s amazing how someone as self-assured as her can be _so_ uncomfortable on camera like that.”

“Ooh, I can’t wait to tell her you saw the commercial. She’s going to be so mortified.” Emma slaps the countertop lightly. “Let me go put this order in for you. Do you actually want avocado?”

“No, but I will have a side of ranch please.”

“Of course.” Emma makes a note of it and moves to take the ticket to the order window. When she turns back around she becomes instantly aware that Jefferson is shamelessly following her with his eyes. She decides she best check on her other customers before she forgets about them completely.

Two refills and a request for pie later, Emma is finally able to return to the bar. A quick glance at Jefferson’s cup reveals that it is now empty so she grabs the pot on her way back to him and fills it.

“It’s like you read my mind,” Jefferson sighs appreciatively, lifting the teacup to his lips for another healthy gulp.

Emma doesn’t respond, mostly because she’s distracted by the way his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. _God, maybe Ruby’s right – I do need to get laid,_ she can’t help but think, along with some other, more inappropriate things.

Thankfully unaware of her present desire to nibble at his jaw, Jefferson plows on with the conversation, once again leaning so far across the bar he actually enters her personal space – something which does _not_ help her predicament. “So,” he says idly, “I had an idea for something fun we could do.”

 _I’m having several right now myself_ , Emma’s mind interjects.

“When’s the next time you have Henry?”

“Oh.” She definitely didn’t expect _that_ turn of events. “I have him this weekend, why?”

Jefferson frowns, scrubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. “No, that won’t work,” he says, more to himself than to her. “That’s much too soon. I have a gig this weekend anyway. What about the time after that?”

“I have him every other weekend,” Emma replies, perplexed. “Or, well, I’m _supposed_ to, anyway.”

“So…” He mutters something under his breath that sounds like dates, “is two weeks from Friday or Saturday good for you?”

Emma rests her forearms on the bar and leans forward slightly, trying to catch his attention. She immediately regrets doing so because, as she realizes belatedly, this brings their faces so close she can almost feel his breath. “Jefferson,” she says, her voice a little softer now, “you still haven’t told me what this is about.”

“Oh, yeah.” He smiles at her, his eyes widening. “I was thinking, what if you brought Henry over to my place the next time I have Grace and we can have a little play date?”

The first thing that comes to Emma’s mind is the way that Ruby and Belle teased her about this very thing happening the night they met Jefferson. The second thing is a mild sense of panic. Would she be allowed to do something like this? Would she need to clear it with Marco first? Or, worse, _Regina_?

To buy herself time to think, she asks, “When’s the next time you have her?”

Jefferson pulls back a little and shrugs. “As long as I give my ex-wife plenty of notice, I can have her whatever weekend is good for you. I only get her once a month, and I’m due.”

“Once a month?” Emma repeats, anguished. That was the amount of time she was given when she first got out of jail, but her social worker quickly lobbied for more time once she proved she didn’t supervision and could handle having Henry more often. Every other weekend is bad enough, but once a month… it was like torture. She lays a sympathetic hand on his arm. “Jefferson, I wouldn’t want to take away your time with her like that.”

“You wouldn’t!” Jefferson insists, a little louder than she expects, and suddenly he’s gripping her hand, his eyes wide.  “I just –“ he sighs, licking his lips while he struggles with the words, “I-I want her to think that coming over to Papa’s is _fun_. You know? I can give her anything she wants, but I don’t want her to spend the few hours we have together playing in her room by herself. So, I want to show her that spending time with _me_ can be fun too. Then, maybe, she’ll ask her mother to let her come over more….” He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes downcast. “Sorry to dump all that on you.”

“No,” Emma says quickly, suddenly wishing he’d look at her again. “I, uh, I know exactly how you feel, actually.” And she does. Wasn’t she just thinking the same thing about Henry this past weekend? “Let’s do it.”

That gets him to look up, a – dare she think it – _hopeful_ smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. “So, it’s a date?”

 _Sneaky bastard._ “It’s a date.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can watch Ruby's commercial for Granny's Diner here: http://youtu.be/MGfPRZihqxE?t=1m36s


	4. Chapter 4

Jefferson presses the first two fingers of his right hand into his temple, massaging slow circles against the headache building there. He is very much aware of the stretching silence in the room, but if there was a question posed to him at some point he has since forgotten it, and he isn’t willing to admit his lapse in attentiveness.

Finally, Archie speaks up once more – to repeat his question, Jefferson guesses. 

“How’s the new regimen working?”

Ah, yes. Now he remembers why there had been silence in the first place – he had deliberately neglected to answer this query the first time it’d been asked. And for good reason, he thinks. He honestly doesn’t feel great about his meds of late, and that’s a problem. One he’d normally confide in his therapist, were it not for the lengthy conversations he’d already had with the good doctor which necessitated the change in prescription in the first place.

Jefferson hates the indignity of being on medication at all, but he’ll gladly take the pills if it means finally coming to a custody agreement with Alice that doesn’t leave him one day a month with his daughter. At least, that’s what he told himself while the so called “mood stabilizers” erased him slowly from the inside out, wiping clean his sense of self, his personality, his desires, and leaving someone blank and colorless in their wake.

He’s fortunate, and eternally grateful, that Archie eventually caught onto the side effects the pills were having on him and hastened to alter the prescription. Only a few short weeks ago, Jefferson thought anything would be better than the grey, dead feeling left inside him from the previous regimen, but, now, in some ways, he thinks what he’s presently going through is worse. Whereas before he had no mood whatsoever (or _desire_ , or _ambition_ ), now he feels dangerously close to the way he was without _any_ medication, and that’s something that scares him. The reason he’s still in therapy, after all, even after the court mandated time is long since up, the meds – all of it is supposed to ensure that he’s capable of controlling himself. And, lately, he hasn’t felt very much in control at all.

Across the room, Archie isn’t letting the topic go undiscussed. “Jefferson?”

“I don’t like it,” Jefferson finally deigns to answer, his tone crisp and bitter with distaste for the subject. “I don’t think the pills are working. I’ve had –“ he struggles to name exactly what his mood swings have felt like, “episodes.”

“Episodes?” Archie repeats sharply. “What kind of episodes?”

“Nothing like what you’re thinking,” Jefferson snaps. He stops to collect himself, licking his lips. “Just… times when I’ve gotten upset, or really happy, and I can _feel_ the change as it’s happening. I was fine one minute and the next I _knew_ I was getting depressed. And I wanted to snap myself out of it. Or, like, I got really manic and I could tell I wasn’t acting… normal. I could _see_ people reacting differently to me, and I wanted to stop myself, but I just _couldn’t_.”

A short silence fills the space between doctor and patient, during which the sound of Archie’s pen scratching can be heard. Finally, he asks, “And these episodes… are they in reaction to certain stimuli?”

Jefferson hesitates. He _really_ doesn’t want to talk about this. He looks at the clock – too much time left to escape. He sighs and grunts, “Yes.”

“And what’s that?”

“A woman.”

Whatever Archie was expecting, it wasn’t that. His eyebrows shoot up as he says, “A woman? You met someone?”

“Yes, obviously,” Jefferson snaps again, irritated that the concept seems so ridiculous to everyone.

Archie’s eyebrows, if possible, climb even higher, doubtlessly at the unnecessary vehemence of Jefferson’s reply, and Jefferson sighs, annoyed that he actually feels guilty.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, “but every time I’ve told someone about her they act like it’s a joke or a pathetic lie to make myself look normal.”

Ever the portrait of patience, Archie asks, “Anyone in particular?”

Of course; there always is. “Alice.”

Archie’s lip quirks slightly. “You told your ex-wife about the new girl you’re interested in?”

Jefferson snorts; hearing it out loud exposes just how damn _petty_ it was. “Yeah, okay, not my best idea. I just –“ the first pause of many more to come, no doubt, while he tries to find the right words, “I wanted to remind her that my world doesn’t revolve around her anymore. And you know what she said? She said, ‘I’ll believe that when I see it.’” Even just recounting the words back has him itching for a cigarette. “Which will be never. No chance am I letting Alice near Emma.”

There is a length of silence following this, during which Jefferson is kicking himself for saying something so ridiculous. He’s certain Archie is going to press him on that front, but instead he takes the discussion back into, well, less uncomfortable waters.

“And what happened? What about this woman do you think triggered these episodes of yours?”

 “I don’t know, she – she –“ How does one quantify the effect Emma Swan has on him? He brushes a hand through his hair. “Like, the first time, we were just talking and she….” He swallows to buy himself time and finds it difficult to do so. _Dammit, why is this still such a big deal?_ “She called me insane. She was obviously just joking, she doesn’t even know about any of this stuff yet, but… it was like a punch to the gut. I felt like I was sinking and I could see the place we were in before, a good place, and I was the one who ruined it because I couldn’t stop myself from being hurt by what she said. I mean, that’s stupid, right?”

“Nothing about what you feel is stupid, Jefferson,” Archie says patiently. “What happened after she called you insane? What did you _do_?”

Jefferson shrugs, picking at the sole of his boot idly. “Nothing. I left. I mean, I had to go anyway, we were just saying our goodbyes when it happened.”

“And then what? How long did you feel like you were ‘sinking?’”

At that, Jefferson actually has to stop and think. “Well… not long, I guess. I had to do a meet and greet, so I tried not to think about it for a while, then when I got home I figured dwelling on it was only gonna get me worked up, so… I just went to bed.”

Archie is giving him a look that makes Jefferson feel like he just said something stupid, though, knowing Archie, that probably isn’t the intent. “Tell me about the second time,” he says eventually, “when you said you felt manic.”

Jefferson licks his lips again, starting to feel a little embarrassed. “Gold called me and told me one of Emma’s friends had been to see him and _just happened_ to mention that Emma was working that day. I’ve been to where she works before,” he hastens to clarify. “And I knew that she wasn’t going to be able to come see _me_ for a while, so I just thought it was up to _me_ to go see her. And if her friend wasn’t _trying_ to get me to go see her then why bother telling Gold? So I went to see her, and I just… I was so excited by the opportunity to surprise her. I just hopped in the car right away and drove out to the diner where she works. I wasn’t even hungry! And once I got there, I don’t know, I couldn’t calm down. I just kept talking and talking, and I could tell she was looking at me differently, and I wanted to cool off so I wouldn’t scare her, but instead I asked her out. Well, sort of.”

It occurs to him as this long outpouring comes to a close that he can’t remember a time in recent history that he’s talked this much. When he was a younger man, certainly, but not now. _Dammit_ , he thinks. Just _talking_ about her is getting him worked up. “See, Doc? It’s happening again.”

Archie sets his pen down and folds his hands together on top of the desk. “Jefferson,” he says calmly, “do you like this woman? I mean to say, are you romantically interested in her?”

 _That should be obvious_ , Jefferson thinks, but the question stills him nonetheless. “Yes,” he replies after a moment, “I’ve never felt this way about anyone.”

“What about Alice?”

Jefferson makes a face. Comparing Alice to Emma is just _wrong_. “Alice was different. I was young, and unchecked, and –“ he makes a vague gesture towards his head, “crazy. We were never good for each other. Grace was the only thing holding us together in the end. Definitely not love. Not even _affection_.”

“So you think your feelings for Alice were only because of your condition?”

“I don’t know. Yes, I guess. I mean, looking back, it’s obvious. She was something I fixated on – and she encouraged it every step of the way.” He sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I can’t think of a single thing I liked about her. Maybe that’s just the bitterness talking, but it’s true.” He stops again, but Archie doesn’t fill the silence with a question, just lets him take his time. “I don’t want this to be the same thing,” he continues finally. “Emma deserves better than that, better than just being an object my unbalanced brain decided to put on a pedestal for whatever reason. And, honestly, I don’t want to care about her just because my meds aren’t working.”

Archie smiles, a reaction Jefferson finds out of place. “Jefferson, do you think it’s possible that these ‘episodes’ you mentioned are just part of the natural process of falling in love?”

Jefferson stares – now he’s _definitely_ embarrassed. “What do you mean?” He asks dumbly.

“Well, when you felt ‘depressed’ because she said something that hurt your feelings, or when you thought you were becoming manic because you were excited to see her – is it possible that these weren’t random mood swings, but just the normal reactions of someone being affected by someone they like?”

There is a healthy silence while Jefferson considers this. He _does_ like the sound of it, he has to admit. “It sounds so simple when you put it that way,” he mumbles eventually.

Archie chuckles and stands up from behind his desk. “I think we’ll leave it there for today.” He walks over to his door and waits for Jefferson to join him there. “Of course, if you do have any unsafe thoughts, please do not hesitate to call me, but, Jefferson, I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” He pats his patient’s shoulder gently. “Just be yourself.”

“Wow,” Jefferson replies, pretending to be grumpy, but secretly quite gratified, “that was _so_ lame.”

“Don’t forget,” Archie says, not put off at all, “I’m not just your doctor, I’m also your friend. See you next week.”

* * *

 

“Wow!” Henry gasps from the back seat of Emma’s car. “It’s a _big_ house!”

 _Understatement_ , Emma can’t help but think, peering out of the passenger side window at the house Jefferson directed her to for their playdate. His, she supposes, as a distinctly out of place feeling overtakes her. Hell, she still feels uncomfortable driving through Regina’s upper middle class neighborhood to pick up Henry – like she doesn’t belong among those white picket fences and MPG-conscious minivans. Now that they are in an area that definitely eclipses “middle class,” that sensation has intensified to almost _paranoid_ levels. As though there are snooty rich people peering out from behind their thousand dollar drapes and sneering at her shitty little Honda as it clatters to a stop at the curb (she doesn’t even feel like she should park in the driveway).

All of which is ridiculous, of course. In reality, no one cares who she is or why she’s there. That’s the way it was when she was cleaning these sorts of houses, back before she got in trouble. She can’t _really_ imagine it’s any different now.

With that thought to allay her worries (if only marginally), she unbuckles her seatbelt and twists around in her seat to unclick Henry’s as well, then lets them both out of the car.

Henry is practically bouncing with excitement, tugging on his mother’s hand, as they walk up the driveway toward the door, and for the moment Emma’s nervousness is forgotten in her affection for her son. Crush on Jefferson aside, this is a chance for Henry to make a new friend and for Emma to actively have a hand in it. This is something she and Henry can share that’s just for them, no Regina involved.

The aforementioned anxiety, however, comes back in full force the moment she touches the doorbell, but she doesn’t have much time to bury it. Her finger hasn’t even come off the button when the door is yanked open, revealing a positively beaming Jefferson, and causing Emma to wonder if he’d been waiting for her – _them_.

“Right on time!” Jefferson is crowing. “I guess you were able to find us okay – well, hello!” He crouches down mid-sentence so that he’s eye level with Henry. “You must be Henry!”

“Yep.” Henry confirms. “Are you Jefferson?”

Jefferson gasps, managing to put on a great show of being shocked without being too patronizing. “How did you know? Are you psychic?”

“No,” giggles Henry. “My mom told me about you.”

“Oh, she did, did she?” Jefferson glances up at Emma and gives her a smile that she’s embarrassed her son is present to witness. “Come in, kid, there’s someone I want you to meet. You, too,” he adds quietly to Emma after he has returned to his full height and ushered Henry inside.

If they thought the house was impressive from the outside, it’s nothing to the interior. Emma rather feels like she’s stepped into the entryway of a fancy hotel, complete with expensive art, than a private residence.

“Nice place,” Emma comments weakly as they move out of the foyer and into the living room proper. _Understatement_ , the voice at the back of her mind tells her once again.

“Thanks,” Jefferson replies dispassionately. “It’s my parents’. Or it _was_. They died a few years ago. So, I guess it’s mine now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Sorry that they’re dead?” Jefferson asks, his eyebrow raised, “or sorry that I now have to live and take care of their ridiculously expensive house, in the pretentious neighborhood with the snotty and gossip happy neighbors?”

Emma blushes, working her jaw furiously for the appropriate response, but Jefferson only laughs and bumps her playfully.

“I’m only messing with you.”

They come to a half-closed door, adorned with the cutest hand-painted sign displaying the name “Grace” in sparkly pink paint, and Jefferson knocks on it gently to announce their arrival. “Hey, pumpkin, we’ve got visitors.”

There is a slight clattering from inside the bedroom and then Grace throws the door all the way open. She’s a cute little thing, that’s for sure, with long blonde hair tied in two curly pigtails and a pink princess costume over a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. She barely gives Emma a glance before all her attention is focused on Henry.

“Hi, I’m Grace. What’s your name?”

Henry seems a little taken aback by her forwardness but replies, “Henry. Why are you dressed like a princess?”

“Because I _am_ a princess,” says Grace. “My dad told me that you were a prince.” She narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Are you one?”

“I was a king for Halloween but I’m not right now.”

“I can fix that,” Grace tells him as matter-of-factly as a five year old can. “Come with me.” Then she takes Henry’s hand and leads him to her closet, which, Emma can see by leaning just slightly into the room, is stuffed full of costumes of _every_ variety.

“I might spoil her a bit, yeah,” Jefferson explains, unprompted, tracking Emma’s incredulous gaze.

“She even has boy costumes?” Emma asks as Grace pulls a tunic with a dragon splashed across the front from the disorganized depths of her impressive collection.

“Oh, yeah,” Jefferson replies, “she’s never seen a costume she didn’t want to wear. Earlier this year she dressed up as Mutant Ninja Turtle and posed with the Easter Bunny at the mall. Alice was so embarrassed, she thought it was shameful, but –“ he shrugs, “who am I do deny what she loves?”

They fall silent, watching Grace yank the tunic over Henry’s head with gusto. For a moment Emma is worried that Henry might not enjoy this sort of manhandling, but when his face reappears he is grinning.

“Do you have a crown too?” He asks enthusiastically.

Satisfied the kids will get along without their supervision, Jefferson turns to Emma, “Want a tour?” He suggests.

Emma tears her eyes from the kids, the corner of her mouth quirking in a half smile. “I thought you didn’t like being clichéd?”

Jefferson snorts. “Fair enough. We’ll skip the tour, then. Can I get you a drink instead?”

“That’s also a cliché.”

“Man, I just can’t win today,” he says as he leads her out of the hallway, back the way they came. “Seriously though, you want anything? I can put on some tea, if you want.”

Emma isn’t a big tea drinker, but she finds herself accepting the offer just the same, and Jefferson shows her into the kitchen area.

“Have a seat,” he says, pulling out a stool from the bar. “I’ll be serving you today.” He waits until she’s fully seated, then rounds the bar into the kitchen proper. “Have any particular flavor preference? I’ve got just about everything you can imagine. I’m a bit of a tea enthusiast, you might say.”

Makes sense, considering he’d ordered it both times he went to the diner. For her selection, Emma reaches out to something familiar, yet perhaps a little uncommon for tea. “Do you have chocolate and cinnamon?”

“Interesting choice,” Jefferson replies, pulling open a cabinet. He looks over his shoulder at her, grinning. “Trying to stump me?”

Emma summons her most innocent expression and shrugs, which makes Jefferson laugh.

“Well, nice try, but I _do_ have some. Custom ordered. I wasn’t a big fan of it myself, but it’s guest’s choice.” He searches the veritable sea of tea containers and finally pulls a small one out. He cracks the lid and holds it up to Emma. “Smell.”

She takes a big whiff and immediately chokes, overwhelmed by cinnamon and dark chocolate scents.

Jefferson laughs. “First time with loose leaf? Such a rookie mistake.”

“Jerk,” Emma says when she is able.

They don’t talk much while Jefferson is preparing the tea. Evidently he takes this part of the process just as seriously as the tea itself. When he’s finally poured two fresh cups, he takes a sip from his own and sighs. “Ahh, perfect.”

“I thought you didn’t like this flavor,” Emma says, testing her own (he’s right, though, it tastes _wonderful_ ).

“Tea is tea is tea, Emma,” Jefferson replies, trying for wise but coming off pretentious.

Emma snorts and takes another sip; it’s still too hot but very tasty nonetheless, a perfect blend of the two main flavors. “How did you become a ‘tea enthusiast’ anyway?”  She asks, curious.

“I lived in England for a while,” he says easily. “And the stereotype is absolutely true, they love their tea over there. It just rubbed off on me.”

“What were you doing there?”

“I left home on the pretense that I would be studying, but once I got there…. Well, dropping out happened almost immediately.”

“But you stayed there anyway?” Emma asks between blowing on her tea and taking another drink of it.

Jefferson nods, his eyes suddenly drawn to his cup. “Yeah, I was spoiled. I was never the most obedient kid, but it was even harder for my parents to control me while I was there. It was easy to pretend I was free from responsibility. I had enough money in my trust fund to support that kind of lifestyle.” He rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. “That’s also when I met Alice.” He lapses into silence and it doesn’t take a genius to realize that he’s talking about his ex-wife, Grace’s mother, nor the fact that he’s not particularly keen on discussing her at all, especially with present company. After a moment, he changes the subject, “Anyway, where are you from? Or are you a local girl?”

“Local,” Emma confirms. “I’ve never even been out of state.”

“What?” Jefferson asks, sounding completely scandalized. “Your family the type to have ‘staycations’ or something?”

Now it’s Emma’s turn to look away. “Nope. No family.” She takes a drink, hoping to seem more nonchalant than she feels. “I was raised in group homes.”

Jefferson’s face falls. “Oh, I’m sorry for mentioning it.”

“You didn’t know.” She shrugs and tries to give him a reassuring look. “And now you do.”

He nods but before he can say anything the slightly muffled chorus of the Asshole Song by Denis Leary breaks into the conversation. At least it lightens the mood as both Jefferson and Emma laugh, though Jefferson seems slightly exasperated.

“That’s Victor. I will bet you a hundred dollars he’s calling to ask if we’re having sex yet.”

Emma chokes, a little stunned by his bluntness, but Jefferson just rolls his eyes and answers, not even giving Victor the opportunity to say anything.

“No, we’re not and we won’t. Need I remind you of the two five year olds? Now if you call again I’m going to post that video I took of you mooning the Neverband manager on Youtube.” And with that he disconnects, silences his phone, and shoves it roughly back in his pocket.

“Harsh,” Emma says, amused, “remind me never to let you get a hold of any blackmail material.”

Jefferson fakes a gasp and places his hand over his heart. “I am shocked and appalled that you think I would ever do that to you!”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Uh-huh.”

The two finish their tea, and though Jefferson offers her another cup, she declines, feeling uncomfortably warm (and is, at least for now, happy to blame that on the tea rather than anything else, thank you very much). After quickly checking on the kids to ensure nothing has gone awry in Grace’s bedroom, they move back into the living room area where Emma takes the initiative to turn the conversation into decidedly safer waters. They talk about music for a while and when that well runs dry (it takes a while, considering Jefferson’s passion for it, but eventually they do exhaust the topic) he regales her with stories of his misadventures while he lived in Europe.

It’s an interesting look into the man, if not the one Jefferson intended to give. Emma is pretty good at knowing when someone is lying, but it doesn’t take any extraordinary amount of perception to realize that Jefferson is holding back on some of the details, which leaves the stories feeling somewhat incomplete and Emma wondering why and what he’s hiding. She’d be annoyed by the obfuscation if, well, she wasn’t guilty of doing it herself ( _though, in my defense,_ she tells herself, _he hasn’t even asked_ ).

What she’s really able to gather from it all is that Jefferson was a totally different person back then, before his daughter was born: spoiled, as he said before, irresponsible, kind of a wild child, and yet all that changed when Grace came along. She kind of wishes she could say the same: that she became a better person for the sake of her son. But her troubles began long before her teenage years and reached their peak _after_ Henry’s birth.

She also picks up on the way he skirts around Alice’s name and it’s pretty easy to determine that he’s still bitter about whatever it was that happened between them.

They’re reaching the point where he is scraping the barrel with his stories when Grace suddenly bursts into the room, sparing them from forging awkward small talk. Her princess costume is gone now and instead she is wearing what Emma guesses to be some kind of troll getup. “Papa, Papa! Can we take Henry to the park?”

Jefferson looks at Emma, “There’s a playground on the next block. You mind walking?”

She doesn’t mind and tells him so, and he turns back to his daughter with a smile so deeply affectionate it makes her heart clench.

“Alright baby,” he says in a tone that matches his expression, “do you want to change first?”

Grace makes a face. “No, what would I do that for?”

Emma has to clench her jaw to keep from laughing out loud, exacerbated by the fact that she can tell Jefferson is doing the same.

It takes a moment, but when he’s finally able he replies, “Just wondering. Go get your shoes on and we’ll go.”

Five minutes later, the four of them step out onto the porch, Grace as a troll and Henry still wearing the dragon tunic, and, after Jefferson has locked the door, they set off. The children lead the way, talking a mile a minute about whatever make-believe game they had been playing. Jefferson makes the odd comment here or there, but, for the most part, Emma is quiet, content to watch Henry laugh and play. She can’t help but remember the time Regina described him as a “loner.” Between today and the immense joy Henry got from his sleep over at the twins’ house it’s obvious that woman could not be more wrong. _And she insists that_ she’s _his mother?_ Emma thinks bitterly. _She doesn’t even know him._

An elbow in her ribs interrupts her thoughts and Jefferson is looking at her with what she thinks is concern. “Still with me?” He asks, lifting his eyebrows.

Her expression must have been particularly murderous if he caught onto it, and Emma schools her face into something more neutral. “Sorry, just thinking about… someone who makes me mad is all.” There is a brief moment of silence, then she hastens to add, “It’s not you. Someone else.”

Jefferson actually chuckles. “Well, that’s comforting, I think.”

It’s not too much longer after that exchange that they reach the park, and the kids waste no time at all running for jungle gym. Just a few moments later and the air is already ringing with their shouts and laughs.

The adults, on the other hand, sit on a bench at the edge of the playground and Emma is acutely aware of a close proximity that has been otherwise absent all afternoon.

“Henry’s a sweet kid,” Jefferson observes with a smile, draping an incredibly conspicuous arm across the back of their bench.

Emma is about to point out how cliché he’s being again when the mood suddenly shifts and he pulls himself closer to her.

“I want to see you again,” he says, his voice a little softer so that Emma wants to lean in to hear him. “And I don’t mean at a show, or at work, or with our kids.” Slowly, ever so slowly, he lifts his hand toward her head, extending his forefinger so that it’s just a breath away from one of her blonde ringlets, but he stops there. She can almost see his hand tremble with anticipation, but he doesn’t touch her. All Emma has to do is incline her head just a fraction and Jefferson takes that as the permission it is, winding that lock of hair around his finger, his face lighting up like a Christmas tree.

“There’s something about you Emma,” Jefferson continues, his voice barely just a breath, “that when you’re near me, you’re the only one I can see. And –“ he swallows hard, and Emma’s eyes automatically track the movement of his Adam’s apple, “I want to have some time with you, where, hopefully, it’s the same for you too. No distractions. Just… us. What do you say?”

“I –“ Emma croaks, her throat dry. She didn’t realize at first that, while he’d been talking, their faces were moving slowly but steadily closer. Now, the sound of his sigh against her cheek pounds in her ears, the sight of his lips parted and inviting takes the breath right out of her lungs, and the little nudge at the back of her mind, urging her to take the plunge, has never been stronger. And, just when she’s sure she’s about to give in –

“Mama, Mama!”

In unison Emma’s and Jefferson’s heads turn toward the source of the interruption, but, Emma notices neither move away.

Henry, for his part, seems unperturbed by what he’s just walked in on. “Are you guys gonna kiss?”

Emma can almost feel the sexual tension evaporate on the spot, but Henry isn’t done.

“It’s okay,” he continues, “Mama and Killian kiss all the time.”

“What do you need, Henry?” Emma asks, trying to keep the exasperation out of her voice. _Or were you just trying to be a mood killer on purpose?_

“There’s an ice cream truck,” Henry says, pointing. “Can I have a dollar?”

“Tell you what, kid,” Jefferson replies before Emma can, reaching for his wallet and pulling out a five dollar bill to hand to Henry. “Why don’t you split this with Grace and get something on me?”

Henry accepts the money with a huge grin. “Thanks, Jefferson!” He pauses, regarding Jefferson with a surprisingly thoughtful expression. “You’re cool,” he finally decides, then runs off to join Grace at the waiting ice cream truck.

The two parents watch their kids with equal fondness for a few moments, then Emma feels Jefferson turn back to her.

“Who’s Killian?” He’s trying to keep his tone light and unassuming, but Emma can hear something in it anyway – jealousy maybe?

“Oh, he’s – he’s....” She searches for a way to describe the situation without going into too much detail. On the other hand, there’s a very real chance that they are on the brink of forming some sort of… relationship here. Isn’t that deserving of some sort of trust? She sighs, “Killian is Henry’s foster mom’s boyfriend. He calls us both ‘Mama’ so I can see where you’d be confused, but he wasn’t talking about me.”

“Oh.” There is a surprised silence and Emma cringes, bracing herself for the inevitable onslaught of questions. Then, Jefferson surprises her as he leans back in, ghosting his hand over her curls affectionately.

“Is it okay if I tell you I’m relieved to hear it?”

Emma ducks her head, both in relief and to hide the smile that spreads across her face. She doesn’t respond, but apparently she doesn’t need to, and they sit together in companionable silence for a few minutes.

Finally, Jefferson breaks the silence again. “So, why don’t you give me your number and we’ll see about a real date?”

“You already gave me _your_ number, remember?” Emma reminds him. “When we set up the play date.”

“Yes, I do. I also noticed that you cleverly got all the information you needed out of me at the same time so you wouldn’t have to call me.”

Emma blushes furiously. He’d seen right through her. “Sorry,” she mutters, embarrassed. “It’s just, well, dating hasn’t really gone well for me since… well, ever.”

Jefferson gives her a sympathetic look that makes her regret saying it out loud, but then he untangles his hand from her hair to lay it on top of her own, their fingers lacing together of their own accord. “I get it, believe me. If you don’t want to go out with me…”

“No, it’s not that. Here –“ She quickly pulls out her phone and sends Jefferson a text message. “Now you have my number,” she says once she’s sure it’s on its way to the right person. “And you know it’s my real one.”

A moment later, Jefferson’s pocket buzzes and he extracts his own cell from it. He smiles at the screen, then at her. “I don’t know,” he says jokingly, “You could always ditch this phone and get a new number.”

Emma snorts. “Yeah, right. Is that what people with trust funds do? Buy new cell phone plans whenever they want to avoid someone they gave their number to?”

Jefferson rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah, I may have done that once.” He clears his throat, then hastily goes back to the previous subject. “You could still ignore my calls.”

“And I will, if you call me while I’m at work.”

“What if I text you first to make sure you’re available?”

Emma feels something wiggly in her stomach at the notion that he _really_ wants to call her. “Then I’ll answer.”

His smile is electric. “Good.”

They sit for a while longer making light conversation, and all the while their hands remain tentatively linked. They watch as the kids skip away from the ice cream truck, each devouring their respective treat with obvious relish. Shortly after that, Jefferson’s phone rings and, after pulling a face at the screen, he steps away to take the call.

Emma tries not to pay attention to him to give him privacy, but her eyes seem magnetically drawn to his pacing figure, and it is clear that whatever the conversation is about it is not making Jefferson happy.

When he returns his smile is back in place, but now it seems a little forced. “Well, it seems like Grace’s mom is wanting her back now, so we have to go.”

“So soon?” Emma asks, surprised. It’s hardly been two hours.

“Yeah, afraid so.” Jefferson sighs, staring out across the playground at the children, still hard at play. “Custody is still a messy issue for us.” There is a dangerous look in his eyes, and it’s easy for Emma to surmise that “messy” doesn’t even begin to cover it. Presently, he turns and offers her a hand up, which she accepts. “Sorry to have to cut this short,” he is saying. “Maybe after the holidays we can do it again.”

Emma smiles at the thought. “I’m sure Henry would like that.”

They call the children over, which they resist for a few moments, but eventually the four start making their way back to Jefferson’s house. The adults don’t talk much, but Grace and Henry fill the silence for them, and it feels, well, kind of natural. It wouldn’t take much for Emma to reach out and take Jefferson’s hand, and complete the lovely picture in her mind of a happy family on their way home together.

But, she doesn’t, of course; that would be too weird, despite exchanging phone numbers and the talk of _real dates_. Even if Jefferson wouldn’t mind it, Emma’s just not there yet. Not ready to commit to this chemistry between them becoming something real and tangible.

When they get back, Emma guides Henry straight toward the car, and their guests follow to wave them off. Then her eyes catch on what Henry is still wearing. “Oh!” She says, “What about Grace’s costume?”

“Henry can borrow it,” Grace announces without sparing a second thought, then points emphatically at Henry, “As long as you come visit again.”

Jefferson’s face is as happy as Emma’s ever seen it. In a flurry of motion he snatches up his little girl, squeezing her tight to his chest, and twisting his body rapidly so that her legs flail out. Grace, apparently accustomed to these sudden outbursts of affection, erupts into giggles and hugs her dad tight around the neck in return.

“You’ll come see us again, won’t you Henry?” Jefferson asks as he sets Grace back on the ground.

Henry finds Emma’s hand and tugs on it hard. “Mama, can I? Can I please?”

Emma ruffles her son’s hair. “’Course kid. We both will.” She smiles at Jefferson over the tops of the children’s heads, which he returns. Then, she turns and opens the car door, allowing Henry to scramble up into his booster seat. Once she’s done strapping him in and has returned to her full height, she feels Jefferson suddenly step much closer to her, his fingers brushing the back of her hand.

“I’ll call you,” he says, his voice low.

“Text first, remember?” She reminds him.

He smiles. “I promise.”

There is no goodbye kiss, not with both the kids right there watching them, but he does lean into her personal space just a fraction and they make eye contact. It feels like it lasts forever; Emma is nearly squirming with the tension of maintaining it, but eventually he pulls away, leaving her oddly exhilarated.

“Take care, Emma.”

Emma finds it hard to keep her eyes off him after that, even as she’s getting into the car and driving away. He and Grace remain in the driveway, waving goodbye, and it’s only until the car rounds a corner and he vanishes from view that Emma stops staring into her rearview mirror.

“Did you have a good time, kid?” She asks Henry.

“Uh-huh,” Henry confirms. “I wanna play with her again! Can we come back soon?”

“I’m sure we will, kid,” Emma promises, a foreign warm feeling bubbling up inside her.

Despite the abrupt end to their play date, the mother and son’s good moods last the rest of the day. Emma even splurges and picks up a few medium pizzas on their way home, instructing Henry with a wink not to tell Regina.

Later that night, after Henry’s been tucked into bed, as Emma’s rereading her story book version of Alice in Wonderland and musing over the irony that Jefferson’s wife’s name was also Alice, her phone vibrates on the bedspread next to her.

It’s a text from Jefferson that reads, _Is it too soon to call?_

Emma bites her lip, smiling like a school girl in spite of herself. After a moment’s deliberation she types back one word: _No._


End file.
